


Exquisite Cortados

by Behind_Blue_Eyes, bewildered, fancyflautist, Fraggleshrew, Passion4Spike, Relurker, sandy_s, SpindleKitten, thenewbuzwuzz, yellowb



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: All Hail West Texas, Anything goes - Freeform, Astral Projection, Bets & Wagers, Bodyswap, Boredom, Coffee Shops, Crack, Dates, Dating, Don’t copy to another site, Episode: s03e08 Lovers Walk, Episode: s05e03 The Replacement, F/M, First Dates, Fluff and Smut, Magic, Out of Body Experiences, Phoebe and her Unicorn, Polish Hero, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Round Robin, So Many Weapons Around the House, Surreal, Truth Spells, Washboard Abs, Werewolves, Willy's bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 04:13:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 49,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18931048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Behind_Blue_Eyes/pseuds/Behind_Blue_Eyes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewildered/pseuds/bewildered, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancyflautist/pseuds/fancyflautist, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fraggleshrew/pseuds/Fraggleshrew, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Passion4Spike/pseuds/Passion4Spike, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Relurker/pseuds/Relurker, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandy_s/pseuds/sandy_s, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpindleKitten/pseuds/SpindleKitten, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenewbuzwuzz/pseuds/thenewbuzwuzz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowb/pseuds/yellowb
Summary: and you may find yourselfliving in a shotgun shackand you may find yourselfin another part of the worldand you may ask yourselfwell ... how did I get here?-Talking Heads





	1. Let the Spell Be...

**Author's Note:**

> This is a crosspost of the third "Exquisite Corpse" round robin that yellowb organized on Elysian Fields. Each author received only the last paragraph of the preceding chapter. The story is complete and will be posted chapter by chapter.
> 
> OffYourBird made us this lovely banner!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my fabulous beta thewiggins, who lent me some barista expertise and braved the unintentionally confusing drafts of this chapter so I could confuse you folks on purpose.

It was the middle of the evening shift at the Espresso Pump. Buffy was pouring a latte, focussed on creating a tulip ornament on the surface.

Latte art was her favorite part of being a barista. So many things went into it—the amount of air in the milk, the angle and speed of pouring, some said even the texture of the espresso shot—that it took all her attention in a kind of meditative focus, and then everything came together in one perfect moment of watching a flower bloom on the drink.

She was working on the symmetry of her tulips. Some people said it might help to keep her shoulders back and her feet parallel. If her whole body was balanced, hopefully she would set a good example to the flower.

The cup shook, and Buffy almost spilled the drink as her coworker bumped into her. All his safety pins, chains, and assorted scrap metal accessories jingled merrily.

"Spike!" she hissed. "You're dead."

"Dead gorgeous, she means," the guyliner-wearing nuisance commented with a wink at the line of college students waiting for their all-nighter fuel. There was entirely too much tittering and blushing.

Buffy handed out the latte—now sporting a wonky swirl of a design—and turned around, mentally prepared to fight Spike for control of the music, because what else could he have wanted at this end of the bar? Hearing the same ten songs on loop all day was excruciating, true, but it was nothing compared to the noise that Spike tried to sneak into the manager-approved playlist. Customers complained that it was impossible to study to his Greatest Hits of Dead Punks or whatever, but Spike claimed that was the point. And then he usually put on that brick-in-the-wall song.

However, Spike wasn't tampering with the music for once, and neither was he staying in his cash register exile as he was supposed to. He was at the espresso machine. Their fancy, expensive “Slayer” brand espresso machine that, to hear Anne the Manager talk, was  _so_ cutting-edge it hadn’t even been invented yet.

Buffy had to rescue it.

“Get away from the Slayer!” she whisper-shouted. “Need I remind you who killed the last one?”

It had been a sad affair. They’d had to put up a sign:  _Espresso machine is down, sorry for the inconvenience_ , and then Buffy had spent the rest of the day explaining to customers why this meant they couldn’t get a cappuccino.

“Relax, Summers,” he said with a smirk. “Me and Slayer have an understanding.”

“What, ‘cause you’re both tools?” She hadn’t made a conscious decision to pick up the damp cloth, but she noticed her hands were wiping down the countertop again, waging the unending war against the hard, sugary droplets of dried syrup. Anne would be proud.

“Oy!” someone said from the other side of the counter. “Are you two done making googly eyes?”

She knew that voice. It was that jerk in the red button-down. The one who always told them to label his cups  _William the Bloody_. The one who enjoyed making her life difficult.

“What can I do for you today?” she asked with her widest, fakest smile.

He stuck his tongue out like he was trying to woo a lizard.

“I’ll have an extra hot, no-foam cappuccino with skim milk and no espresso… and put in some ice, pet, but make sure it’s at the bottom.”

He smirked.

She’d seen that smirk before. Just half a minute ago, on the face of her annoying colleague. In fact, it was the same face. It was like Spike had an evil twin in a red shirt—only, Spike was evil too, so that made both of them evil twins.

***

William sipped his tea and watched the evening unfold at his favorite coffee shop. It was the quieter time between the post-sunset rush and the late night customers. He was done trying to study for today, and was treating himself to a floral Darjeeling and just sitting for a moment, letting impressions flow through him.

At the bar, the two bleached blond men were this close to fisticuffs over the definition of cappuccino. Ruffians.

The lady barista was punning, “Maybe you should learn to espresso yourself better.”

She was perfect, magnificent. He saw her work so hard, staying on her feet for long hours without a moment of rest, and yet she still had a smile and a quip for everyone. It took strength to keep being as kind as she was. She glowed, even in the homely lighting of the coffee shop at night. And, in her light, the whole world glowed; it had to be a good world, since she was in it.

He had started a poem for her. It wasn’t coming along very well—not enough things rhymed with “Buffy” (which he knew was her name because of the name tag). “Scruffy” was right out. Hmm, “effulgent” kind of rhymed. There was the double f, and the u...

So the poem wasn't ready to be pinned down in words, and that meant he was carrying it around with him for now, wrapped in scraps of thoughts and feelings like a cloak. He saw her no matter where he looked. It seemed like that co-ed sitting with her back to him at the next table had Buffy’s hair, the same curve of her shoulders and waist… When the radio played a love song by someone named Spike, William felt it was him, singing his love for Buffy, and the whole world sang with this sweet secret. Everything seemed avatars of the two of them: the gray cat washing itself on the windowsill had eyes the same shade as hers, the gazelle on a book cover was as golden as her hair, and he bet he knew how that moth felt, circling the lamp in single-minded adoration. Even the framed submarine photo, which he could swear he’d seen a hundred times, seemed to be about them today. The caption of the photo was something he’d heard before—was it Neruda, maybe?  _Runs silently, runs deep._  So did his love.

He was contemplating the elegant silhouette of the espresso machine and the softer, even more beautiful curves of Buffy’s hair and jawline, when he heard a funny noise. It had to be his imagination, surely, but it sounded an awful lot like the espresso machine just… moaned?

***

Slayer hummed in contentment, heat pooling in her brew tank at Spike’s expert touch. He knew exactly how to push all her buttons, figuratively speaking. In reality, he was flipping her dark wooden control levers.

She knew Spike understood her like nobody else and loved all of her: the rivets in her handles that whispered a dangerous tale of daggers and ashes; her silver metallic no-slip x-legs with 30% gloss; the secret workings of her needle valve; and the dark essence of superhuman energy oozing through her depths.

Beneath her steely exterior, moisture gathered until the teflon-coated screen of her naked portafilter started to drip. Spike knew the value of a good pre-brew wetting stage, she thought appreciatively. He took his sweet time, teasing her for an interminable 45 seconds. Then he touched her actuator just so, and she gushed espresso right into the cup.

***

Spike finished pulling the espresso shot and patted the flank of the Slayer. The machine made a noise, and he caught himself thinking it sounded satisfied.  _Rock bottom, mate_ , he told himself. He needed to get laid. What was the name of Bill’s cousin who always tagged along to band practice and gazed at him with big shining eyes? Bunny? Betty? Maybe it was time to invite Betty to a little one-on-one session.

Cappuccino poured, he watched three customers walk in. The girl who always ordered donuts had brought a twin, it seemed. It struck him today that they both looked exactly like his coworker Buffy, and one of them even had the same name. Wild, that. It was a small world. The guy who was with them looked uncannily similar to Buffy’s annoying customer, Mr. The Bloody. He would also look similar to Spike himself if Spike didn’t have infinitely better style. The newcomer was wearing a white sweater. Nancy boy. Good hair, though—it wasn’t easy to bleach it that light and have it look touchable. If ever the band made it big and people sold Spike-themed teddy bears, the bears would look like this guy.

“Come on, Anya,” Buffy the donut regular said to the sweater bloke. “Let’s carry on with the sacred harvesting of the donuts.”

Buffy’s twin was wearing a pink jacket, a shirt trimmed with daisies, and a look of utter boredom. “You two go right ahead,” she said, rummaging in her handbag. “The part of this that’s my job is still a solid 0%.”

“It’s not nice of you, you know,” Anya said. “Calling me that.”

“What,  _Anya_?” Buffy replied. “I guess. But it’s like Giles said, we can’t call everyone  _Spike_  and  _Buffy_  now that the whole town’s full of ‘em. And they think you were Anya, so...”

“Sure,  _Xander_ ,” Anya said, “stick labels on everyone and call them what they used to be. It’ll help so much, unless you don’t remember what the labels mean—oh, wait. We already don’t. There are better parts of  _One Hundred Years of Solitude_  we could be acting out, is what I’m saying. You know the bit near the end, with the inspired use of tin foil?  _That’s_ the spirit.”

The girl in pink rolled her eyes carefully, so it wouldn't interfere with touching up her eye shadow.

Behind the bar, Spike cleared his throat. He didn’t know why they were quibbling about names, but he knew Buffy’s order. “Hey, Buff,” he said. “Enough donuts to feed an army, packed to go, right?”

“Yep, thanks,” she said and turned back to her friends. “Did you hear about the moose?”

“Moose? In California?” Anya said.

“Yeah, from the zoo.”

“I didn’t know our zoo had mooses,” said the pink twin. “Or, wait, is it  _meese_?”

“Anyway,” Buffy said, “they escaped. I think the spell hit the whole zoo. The penguins and meerkats are acting up as well, I hear. It’s a total zoo in there.”

Today was a total zoo everywhere, Spike thought.

***

Buffy Summers, the one and inimitable, cast a satisfied look around Giles’ living room. They’d finally gotten this Scooby meeting started, even if they did have to tie some people up and knock some people out to make it happen.

Granted, it wasn't a very orderly meeting. Dawn, who looked like Buffy’s embarrassing elementary school photos, was in constant motion and only replied to  _Power Girl_. Meanwhile, one of the other Buffys kept sidling up and trying to give Buffy backrubs. She was sure it must be Riley, but that didn't really make it less weird.

Still, Buffy felt much better now that everyone had a name tag, at least. Hers said,  _BUFFY!_  and, in smaller letters,  _Accept no substitutes!_  Which, in retrospect, had been a mistake, because that was when everyone else started messing with their name tags, too.

On the sofa, according to the name tags, they had Buffy “Surrounded By Losers” Summers, Casual Xander, and Spike. They looked like two Buffys and a Spike, but when the spell finally ended, that would be the two Xanders and Anya.

In the recliner next to the sofa, another Spike sprawled regally. He’d claimed this seat for himself as the self-elected brains of the operation. This Spike could do magic, so he must have been Willow. His name tag said, as a compromise,  _Will._

Perched on the edge of the sofa near the recliner was a shy, quiet Spike who had a soul, according to the other Spikes. He had accepted the  _Tara_  name tag without protesting.

The original Spike leaned against the wall across from her, scowling at everyone.

And Giles, the author of the name tag idea, stood very straight in the middle of the room next to the table, looking criminally drab in her beige pants and cream half-sleeve blouse.

“Friends!” Giles started. “Get off the table, Dawn.”

“That’s not my name!” Dawn replied, surveying the room from her high ground through a rolled-up magazine.

“Hey, Power Girl,” Tara said, “we should find you a cape. Can't be a superhero without a proper cape, can you?”

“Yes I can,” Dawn said, to everyone's dismay.

She deliberated, peering at Tara's dishevelled blond curls and torn shirt through her makeshift telescope. “But I will help you find a cape, fair guy.”

“Friends... and enemies,” Giles tried again with a nod at the tied-up chipless Spikes at the far end of the room. “We’re here because we’re all going to die.”

Buffy winced. And she’d thought the real Giles had been bad with the speechifying when she first met him.

“Don’t worry! I'll save you!” Dawn shouted, jumping off the table and heading upstairs to raid Giles’ linen closet. Buffy was sure Real Giles would understand when he was done being her doppelganger. It was for a good cause.

Once Tara and Dawn left, the room felt much less crowded.

Will pitched in, “Watcher means we’re all mystically linked. So if that meerkat eats that albino cobra at the zoo, game over! All of us other Spikes are dust.”

“And, in some cases, that’d be a bad thing,” the original Spike said with a glare.

“Wait, do meerkats eat cobras?” said Casual Xander.

“Fine, if that  _moose_ eats that cobra.”

“It sucks to be the grownup here,” Giles said over the sniggering, “but think about the cemeteries. There must be fledge Buffys and Spikes all over Sunnydale. It’s enough if just one of them scores a kill or decides to give infighting a go.”

How to put it.

“Um,” Buffy said and stopped. “I saw them earlier. They were... they weren’t killing.”

She’d escaped for a quick patrol just to get away from the crazy. It hadn’t helped. She’d never get those images out of her head.

“Good on them!” Anya said.

Buffy cast an incredulous look around the room. Nobody seemed sufficiently upset. She thought Giles even looked wistful. The Xanders were grinning. Her gaze landed on the real Spike. He looked as shaken as she felt, and this feeling of kinship was its own brand of disturbing.

“Okay,” she said, “let’s get this over with, shall we? Giles, do you want me to do another recap of the spell, for our donut team?”

At her nod, Buffy launched into the story for what felt like the fifth time. “So, last night, some demon split Xander in two. We figured it out today, and Willow was doing a spell to put the Xanders together again.”

Will nodded, looking bored. By now, he probably knew the story as if he’d been there.

“Only, then, Xander said it couldn’t be that easy.”

There were sounds of amused disbelief around the room. With every retelling, the jinx sounded more obvious.

“Exactly,” Buffy said. “So then the door opened and Spike ran in, and I guess he didn’t see me…”

“On account of you bloody ambushing me...”

“...and, long story short, we ended up in the spell circle.”

“And our raw animal magnetism was too much for the poor spell,” Anya said.

The exhausting thing was that Buffy couldn’t just knock them all out. She needed some people to be conscious for the despelling, she reminded herself.

“ _No_ ,” Buffy plowed on. “The spell went kablooey because we startled Willow and… want to take it from here, Will?”

Will stretched. “Your witch said, I quote,  _Let the spell be… Spike? Buffy? Spike and Buffy?_  And here we are.”

He hopped to his feet with completely gratuitous ripple action. “The good news is we can sort this out right quick. I’ve magicked the bathroom mirror so it will show all our reflections for now. If you’ll all just form an orderly queue, I can combine your reflections so all our pretty selves are as one again.”

“Wait,” Overalls Xander said. “Call me slow girl, but…”

“Slow girl butt,” three different Spikes obliged simultaneously.

“Shut up,” said every Buffy in the room.

“...but why can’t we just say  _let the spell be ended_?”

All eyes turned to Will, who said, “Be my guest, but I told you straight away it wouldn’t work. And then  _some people_  felt the need to try it anyway, so now we know for sure.”

Buffy remembered something. “Willow said joining the Xanders would be easy because their natural state was to be together.”

The pink Xander snuggled closer to Anya, looking so content Buffy could scream. “So now the spell thinks  _this_ is our natural state? You got that much right.”

“God, no,” Spike said. “Surrounded by the damn Slayer everywhere I go? Please. I’d rather dust.”

Buffy felt like thanking him, which was very creepy and had to stop.

“And you’ll get your wish if we don’t haul our arses over to the bathroom,” Will said. “Don’t even think about swatting that fly,” he added with a glare at Casual Xander. “It could be you.”

Casual Xander blew at the fly and waved her hands around in a vain attempt to scare it. The fly evaded deftly and kept settling on her face and walking around. “No, I'm getting a definite Spike vibe off of this little bastard,” she said. “I think it's one of you guys.”

Everyone shuffled to their feet carefully, so as not to tread on any ant!Buffys that might be exploring the carpet, and headed for the bathroom. They took turns to stand in front of the mirror as Will chanted and all the Spikes scrutinized their reflections with varying degrees of stealth.

Buffy watched her reflection become bright and blurry as the reflections of the other Buffys overlied it. Her reflection was wearing her cute lavender hoodie and striped top, but it was also wearing Giles’ cream blouse and Xander’s overalls, and all of their faces. Her hair looked terrible—all the static in the air wasn't helping.

“I have a question,” Anya said. “How are we getting the moose in here?”

“Oh, we won’t need everyone,” Will said. “Once the reflections reach critical mass, we should snap back to normal.” He added something so quietly that nobody but a vampire would hear.

“You _think?_ ” Tara repeated, frowning.

“You don’t know how the spell works?!” Buffy said thrice as loudly.

Dawn giggled.

“Yeah, see, I had a different spell in mind. A good spell it was, predictable… tried and tested… but then I got so bored!”

“I’m going to kill you,” Buffy said seriously.

It might have remained another empty threat, but then Anya had to pipe up, “Don’t worry, mate, that’s how she says  _I love you!_ ”

Buffy had to punch something. And Spike was so close and also kind of to blame for the whole thing, and she was only going to poke him a little. It wasn’t like she would risk messing up the spell. But then he ducked and feinted, and, next thing Buffy knew, her fist met glass.

The mirror shattered, splitting the bespelled reflection into a myriad of tiny Buffys and Spikes. Buffy’s ears popped. Snippets of realities ran through her mind like dream beginnings do before sleep. The spell was still working, but what would it do now? It was anyone’s guess.

“Bugger,” Willow said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I always appreciate feedback, including about things that aren't working so well.
> 
> The idea to write characters in the roles of other characters came from [a prompt](https://spuffycarrie.tumblr.com/post/182320946973/writing-prompt-id-love-to-see-someone-try-pick-a) by hcconn, and the idea that Buffy should be Xander and Spike should be Anya belongs to SpuffyCarrie and was used with her blessing.
> 
> I have briefly borrowed some Buffys and Spikes from other people's fic:  
> \- [SpuffyCarrie, Sunalso, and Bewildered's grey cat;](https://dark-solace.org/elysian/viewstory.php?sid=5772&chapter=5)  
> \- [Baphrosia’s gazelle](https://sb-fag-ends.livejournal.com/150761.html);  
> \- [Quinara](https://archiveofourown.org/works/487275) and [bogwitch's](https://quinara.livejournal.com/201986.html?thread=2426626#t2426626) moth;  
> \- stormwreath and angearia's [submarine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/71292);  
> \- beer_good's [moose](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17448683);  
> \- the legendary [all-penguin AU](https://snickfic.dreamwidth.org/136320.html);  
> \- and specifically [sunalso's vision of vamp!Buffy's priorities](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10981374/chapters/24454026).
> 
> ***
> 
> The story will be continued, in a manner of speaking, by yellowb.


	2. Bugger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta’d by the sweet and brilliant OffYourBird, and Brit-polished by the lovely liverdoc.

“Bugger,” Willow said.

Giles glanced up as he poured his tea. She stood in the middle of his living room, scowling at the bookshelves, a few steps from the chair where she’d been meditating.  “Pardon?”

Willow’s eyes met his for a moment before swinging wildly back around the room, coming to rest on her own hands.  She mumbled something even less comprehensible than the usual teen-speak before spinning back to him and growling, “What have you done with the ring?”

Giles looked at her over the top of his glasses as he stirred his cup. “Ahem.  I believe you put some personal items at the end of the table for safe-keeping.”  He took a sip. It was soothing, a proper British cup of tea; an island of tranquility in the stormy seas that American teenagers inevitably brought to shore.  Even the very talented ones. He’d realized early on that whatever the official Council line might be regarding best practices, being Buffy’s live-in Watcher would have left him witless in short order.  

The redhead continued to wheel about, until her eyes fixed on the mirror hanging near the door.  She approached it slowly, stumbling a little.

He sighed. “Might I suggest that it would perhaps be wise to sit a bit longer?  Trips to the astral plane are not to be taken lightly. Though you are of course quite a quick study, it can nonetheless take some time for the subtle body to meld seamlessly with the corporeal one.”

He might as well not have been speaking at all.  She was transfixed by her own image, staring open-mouthed into the mirror.

Low blood sugar, perhaps. Giles went to the kitchen, selected an orange.  Could American teenagers could even ingest fruit? He switched it out for a box of hobnobs, a plate. “These may help.” He brought the plate to the table and cleared a place for it amid the herbs and books. “It’s fascinating, really.  The ancient Egyptians believed that the _kha_ , the subtle body that detached itself from the physical form, was a separate vessel that could be filled with the soul, or _ba_ ; whereas during the reappreciation of astral projection that took place during the early nineteenth century, the reigning theory moved toward a notion of –”

The head of his favorite hand flail embedded itself in the table between the biscuits and a bag of lavender, iron spikes gouging the wood.  “ _Willow_ ,” said Giles, in a tone of voice that was in fact perfectly reasonable and absolutely not a girlish screech.  “Do take care with the weapons.” He turned.

Willow still held the handle of the flail, looking … he could think of no better word than devastated.  “Now, now,” he said, despite his pain for his furniture.

Her eyes met his.  “It’s _too_ _sodding heavy_.”  Her voice was shrill. _“_ You’ve stuck me in Red’s body and she has these … these _paltry_ _pipe-cleaners_ for arms and I – I can’t even bash your brains in with a bloody mace.”  Her bottom thumped into the chair as hard as though she had fallen.

“Willow?” said Giles hesitantly.  

“I thought you were supposed to be the Oxford man – the clever one.”  Was she mocking his accent? The words dripped with an oddly familiar sarcasm –

“Spike!” said Giles.  He stepped back with alacrity, pausing to retrieve the emergency stake he kept nestled between the toaster and the wall.  “What in Hades are you doing in Willow’s body?”

“Loathing it.”  Spike absently, and futilely, tried to pry the prongs of the flail out of the table. “Right nice to look at, but complete bollocks as a body. Not to mention short.”

“Short _er_ ,” Giles corrected unthinkingly.  

“Can put the stake away.  Bloody _human_ body.”  He made a sound suspiciously like a sniffle.  “Be a proper mess if you stake me – good Axminster carpet and whatnot.”  

“Quite right,” said Giles, nodding as he reached behind some books for his second-favorite-for-indoor-shooting crossbow.  

“Reckon Red will be pissed if you maim her before she’s back.  How ’bout you tell me what all this is about?”

“Me?  Believe me, I’ve nothing to do with your illicit appropriation of – oh.”  Giles froze for a moment in contemplation.

“‘ _Oh?_ ’”

“Nothing,” said Giles.  “I’m sure she didn’t. I warned her against – no, I have no idea whatsoever.”

He circled Spike carefully to reach the chest between the bookcases; as a Watcher, he of course had on hand an array of ropes, manacles, and chains.  For purely professional reasons.

***

Out like a light, Buffy noted with satisfaction.  She’d grab the Gem now, before he came to. She paused, mid-reach for his hand.  If she just pulled it off his finger while he was unconscious, splayed inelegantly across the green grass of the quad, he’d sizzle away to nothing before he woke.  That felt like way too easy an end for Spike.

And, too, there was something mesmerizing about seeing him like this. Spike never held still. The sunlight threw his face into high relief – as though those cheekbones needed any help.  

It was already too late; Spike’s lashes fluttered open as she watched. His eyes found hers, shockingly blue in the sunlight, just as she abandoned her reach for the ring.  

“Buffy?” He sounded pleased.

She scrambled up, staring at him quizzically. He drew himself into a sitting position lazily, brows furrowed as he looked around, but made no move to get to his feet.  

“Spike?”

“What? Where?”  He scrambled to his feet, scoping out the swathes of green lawn, the serene pathways in a panic. “Does he have the ring?”  He backed up to within an inch of her before turning to look at her wide-eyed.

Buffy let her fighting stance relax ever so slightly.  “Spike.”

“What?” His face screwed up in concentration.  Then he took in his black tee, the red shirt, the duster. “Eep!” Spike stumbled backwards.

Buffy caught him by the front of his tee.  His arms flailed, looking from her hand to her face.  “Buffy, it’s me!”

Buffy stifled a laugh.  “You don’t say. Got it, enemy mine.”  Her fist hit his nose with a satisfying crunch as she let him go.

“Oww!”  Spike had fallen to the ground, devoid of his usual grace, clutching his nose with a wail.  “Buffy, it’s _me_!  You know, your bestie?”

“Right.  These bruises make us besties,” said Buffy, raising her arm to block a blow that never even began.  

Spike looked at himself again, and then up at her petulantly.  She slowly straightened.

“Your favorite ice cream is Chunky Monkey,” said Spike.

Buffy frowned. “What happened to your accent?”

“Your roommate before me was obsessed with Cher, and then she tried to eat your soul.”

“That’s … impressive research,” she allowed.  “Wait – ‘before me’?”

“Oh!  You’re a firm believer in daily exfoliation,” said the vampire, pantomiming scrubbing himself.  “Much loofing, you know, with the loofah?”

“... _Willow?_ ”

***

“Oh, don’t flamin’ narrow your eyes at me, Rupert,” said the vampire, twisting his petite form under the excessive, but remarkably tidy, ropes that bound him to the chair.  The flail remained embedded in the table. “It’s not going to make me look more myself.”

“When I want your advice, Spike...”  Giles broke off, and swirled his scotch absently; it was early, but he found that dealing with Spike’s general vulgarity coming out of Willow’s mouth required fortification.  “You’re certain you saw nothing resembling a silver cord?”

“Didn’t see a thing while I was out,” said Spike impatiently.  “Like I told you. Last thing I remember was a rather brill— a boot in my face.”

“... and then you came to, in my apartment,” said Giles.  He sipped meditatively; Willow’s body leaned forward, disturbingly, towards the booze.  “In Willow’s body.”

“Could pour me a bit,” said Spike, raising one of Willow’s eyebrows.  “’m traumatized, here.”

“Ah, yes,” said Giles.  “By which I mean, of course, _no_.  We are not suddenly bosom friends, Spike, because your bout of mortal combat with my Slayer happens to be have been interrupted.”

A lawn mower started up somewhere outside.

“No reason to be hostile,” said Spike morosely.  “It’s what I do, yeah? What she does, too.”

Giles looked at him incredulously.

“Helped you out when Angelus had you,” continued Spike on a brighter note, still eyeing Giles’ glass.

“It was indeed very good of you to incapacitate him and carry me to safety,” said Giles dryly.  “I had nearly forgotten.” He took another sip, allowing a modest trace of his enjoyment to show.

***

“So Giles, you’re saying that if we reunite the baklavas, you can do some mojo to get Willow back inside Willow?”  Behind the background static, she could hear Willow’s voice, unusually rough, sing-shouting _Sheena is a PUNK rocker_ , over and over.  She glanced towards the quad to check on Willow; the vampire’s body was balanced on one of the ornamental fence posts, a look of delight on his face.  As she watched, Willow poised to leap to the next one. A trio of college girls had stopped to watch, giggling and whispering to one another.

“The _ba_ and the _kha_ ,” shouted Giles.  “The _ba_ and the – oh, bugger.  Buffy – do hang on, just a moment.”  The phone clattered sharply, and the sound of Willow’s singing ended with a strangled cough.  When Giles came back on the line, he spoke at a normal volume. “And how is dear Willow holding up?  This must be terribly distressing. I can only imagine.”

“Oh, I think Willow’s doing really well, considering the...” Buffy trailed off.  Willow was now squatting on the second post, sun bright on her tousled white hair, surrounded by the girls.  Buffy couldn’t make out the words, but high notes of laughter carried across the lawn. “ … the trauma … the oodles of trauma.  How’s Spike?”

“Gagged,” said Giles mildly.  “I do hope Willow forgives me any minor contusions, but he was threatening to sing the entirety of _Rockets to Russia_ until I let him at the good scotch.”

As Willow dismounted and headed towards Buffy, one of the girls grabbed at Spike’s sleeve; when Willow turned back again, Spike’s face looked weirdly thrilled until his eyes met Buffy’s and his face went expressionless.  “Giles – this is an all-or-nothing baklava thing, right?”

“Ah,” said Giles. “Yes.  Buffy, I have no idea what question you’re asking right now.”

“Nevermind,” said Buffy.  “We’ll be there ASAP.”

***

“Hey, Buffy!”   

“Hey, Wils,” said Buffy.  “Were you just … were they just flirting with you?”

“Oh,” said Willow.  “Maybe? I mean one of them did kinda slip me her number.”

“That’s pretty flirty, Wils,” said Buffy.

“Yeah – yeah!  But it’s not like I could really say, ‘hey don’t flirt with me because this isn’t even my body.’  Because, you know, even in the dale of sunny, that would be weird.”

“Uh-huh,” said Buffy.  “Weird.”

“So anyways, I thought I’d come over here to see you and then … no more flirting.” She offered Buffy a small, bright smile.  “I kind of wish I could go back in time to P.E. class, you know?”

“Uh – what?” said Buffy.

“It’s just – I mean, I was always Miss-Last-Picked-for-the-Team.  I guess you’re kinda used to it, being all super strong agility girl.”

“Part of the Slayer package,” said Buffy.  “But I get it – it must be really strange. Also with the whole, you know, other package.”  She gestured vaguely towards Spike’s waist.

“What?” said Willow, slowing down to run her hands curiously down her flat chest. She lifted her t-shirt experimentally.

“Whoa,” said Buffy.

They were both silent a minute.

“Spike’s _built_ ,” said Willow.  “I never really appreciated that as he came flying in the school window to kill us.”

“I  – well.  I may have noticed,” said Buffy. At Willow’s look, she defended herself.  “Just once or twice. You know, what with all the innuendo … okay, getting a judgey look from you out of Spike’s face is so not what I need right now.”

“Buffy?” said Willow.  “Are you saying you find the, like, evilest vampire we know kinda hot?”

“A world of no,” said Buffy.  “I mean, maybe. Yes, in the abstract.  In the _very_ abstract.   _You_ were just appreciating your own abs.  Or his own abs?  I mean, there’s some question about whose abs they are, right now, don’t you think, like are they –”

“Love the abs you’re in,” said Willow.  “The new body-positive jingle.”

Buffy showed no sign of having heard her.  “And I mean those cheekbones, also kinda with the good, and –”  She looked Willow in Spike’s eyes and her voice faltered.

“Y-yeah,” said Willow, and wasn’t that strange, to hear her speaking in Spike’s gravelly voice.  “You know, those girls smelled great, but you _really_ smell amazing.”  

“Not bad eyes,” continued Buffy dreamily.  So clear and blue.

“Beyond amazing.  Do you always smell this good?” said Willow.  

He really might freckle, his skin was so fair.

Buffy snapped her gaze away.  “Heya, so, Giles says it’s a double switcheroo, just like you thought.”

“Right,” said Willow dazedly.  “Maybe I’m hungry?”

“Butcher’s shop!” said Buffy.  “We should get going. Your body’s still in Giles’ living room, full of Spike.”

“Ew,” said Willow.  “It makes me feel a little dirty, somehow, that he’s in there.”

“Well, he’s tied to a chair,” said Buffy.  “So you know, he’s not doing anything with your body you wouldn’t do.  But I do think we better get you over there pronto.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story will continue with SpindleKitten! 
> 
> (SpindleKitten, I’m sorry about that last paragraph. But what else could I possibly do after Willow said “bugger”??? It was inevitable, all of it!)


	3. To Sit a While in Your Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this was a very different kind of writing experience for me. Both harder and more fun than I anticipated.  
> Thank you to the wonderful yellowb for going to all the effort of organizing everyone and making this challenge work.  
> Also, to my lovely beta Badwolfjedi for her keen typo-spotting eye and encouragement.

 

“Well, he’s tied to a chair,” said Buffy. “So you know, he’s not doing anything with your body you wouldn’t do. But I do think we better get you over there pronto.”

Spike didn't look convinced. It might have been the way that his body was stroking a hand up and down the opposite bicep. Or the very disturbing look in his eye as he licked his lips while tracing over the muscle. Perhaps it was simply the very fact that it was _bleeding Andrew_ that was currently in control of the vampire's body.

Whatever it was, he agreed with the Slayer. He needed to get back in his own body. Sharpish.

Unfortunately, neither Spike nor Buffy were able to cast the necessary spell. Andrew might have been, but considering that he caused the mess in the first place there wasn't even a question of asking him to try and fix it.

At least they were pretty sure they knew what had happened. It was – for once – not a new experience. Or rather, it was something that Buffy had far too much experience of. Somehow the stupid geek had got ahold of the same type of device that Faith had once been gifted by the Mayor. And for whatever idiotic reason, he had decided to use it on Spike.

The biggest problem was that the only magically-inclined person that they could trust to sort out the situation was right now on the other side of the world. Willow was currently on Madagascar, setting up a slayer support training academy for young witches, warlocks and other non-Watcher-type humans who would eventually graduate as fully trained Scoobies, ready to be assigned to one of the active Slayers.

When Buffy had called her, the witch had promised to teleport over as soon as she was able. Except that she would be in meetings for at least a couple of hours yet. Spike had been furious at that but eventually resigned himself to the wait.

Buffy herself was seriously wigged. She wasn't sure which she found more disturbing – the creepy way that Andrew was hero-worshipping the body he currently inhabited, or the incredibly odd sight of Spike attempting his usual pissed off vampire attitude while in the geek's body. Both were so terribly, terribly _wrong_.

She could only be thankful that it was an immediate switch. For a second, the idea that the bodyswap might have happened when she was in a more... _intimate_ setting with Spike had almost made her throw up. It was most definitely of the good that she had been wide awake and expecting a super dull Watchery meeting when Andrew used the device. The change in the two men had been instantly obvious and Buffy wasn't entirely sure which of them was more shocked by what had happened.

She decided that the painful wait for Willow's arrival was as good a time as any to interrogate their captive. Not that she expected to need even the threat of torture to get him to reveal every last detail of what he surely considered a diabolical plan. _Why_ the idiot persisted in clinging to the idea that he was a reformed evil mastermind was beyond her. His occasional 'slip-ups' were a deliberate and ridiculous attempt to prove that he was still capable of wrongdoing and thus not the wimpy geek that they all knew he really was.

It was like the newly chipped Spike stealing radios. Except more pathetic.  

“So, Andrew. Why the fuck are you in Spike's body?”

The vampire's skin paled further than she believed possible without massive blood loss. Despite the bad influence that she lived with, Buffy still didn't swear much. It made those times that she _did_ all the more emphatic.

Andrew knew, beyond all doubt, that she was the highest level of furious right now.

“I don't suppose you'll believe me that it was an accident?”

The glare on the Slayer's face told him in no uncertain terms that no, she would not.

“Right, well, I suppose _accident_ is maybe a bit of a stretch. It was just meant to be a practical joke—”

Spike cut him off with a vicious snarl — or what would have been a snarl if he wasn't currently confined to a human body. Coming from Andrew it was just... cute.

“I'll give you a practical joke, you wanker. Jus' you wait 'till I have my body back...”

Spike then cringed at the truly pathetic expression on his face and very audible gulp. It was truly a wasted opportunity to see himself in all his three-dimensional glory because he was pretty certain he had never looked even _half_ that pathetic after a week of special attention from Angelus.

That thought immediately led to the question of who would have been better at showing off his body. His immediate answer was, of course, Buffy — which then led to some very entertaining images which he found himself desperately trying to suppress, alongside the stirrings of arousal that felt so utterly wrong.

Remembering not to randomly stop breathing and trying to hear anything over the damned rushing of a pulse was bad enough. He didn't need to experience the boy's hormones, too.

Buffy allowed her lover his moment of introspection — she would have to ask him later to explain the story behind that particular series of expressions — before returning the focus back to Andrew.

“In what way did you think that stealing my boyfriend's body counted as a practical joke?”

He cringed further back into the chair they had tied him to.

“Well, the guy who sold it to me didn't mention the body swapping. He heard me muttering in the magic shop about how impossible it is to play tricks on a vampire — I wanted to get back at Spike for always using his super speed and ninja stealth to sneak up on me. He offered me the gadget. He said that it gives a shock when you shake the other person's hand. Only, that it was too strong to use on humans. Which, now that I think about it, was probably a lie. He must have wanted to make sure I wouldn't accidentally use it on anyone else first.”

A sinking feeling began to weigh down Buffy's stomach. There was something about the way this had been set up that was far too familiar.

“Did you bother to get a name from this ever so generous person?” Spike asked with a heavily sarcastic tone that really didn't sound right in Andrew's voice.

The boy shook his head nervously.

“He said I shouldn't tell you. That Buffy wasn't a fan of his jokes and she'd get mad at me for letting him help.”

The only thing that stopped Spike from smacking the ponce around the head as hard as the puny human body he was currently wearing was able was the fact that he didn't want to give his future self a headache.

Instead, he balled his fists and growled in the most menacing tone that he could manage.

“And that didn't set off any kind of warning bells? No worries taking unknown magical artifacts from someone that the Slayer doesn't trust? Are you really that stupid?”

Spike was so glad that Buffy was the only one to see his utter humiliation. The image of himself shaking in fear and acting in a way that made nancy-boy William seem tough would give him nightmares for _years_. He was pretty sure that if it was possible then the idiot would have pissed himself, too.

With a furious bark, he shouted: “What was his name, Andrew?”

“Ethan!” he squeaked, instantly cracking under the forceful tone of the words. “He called himself Ethan.”

Buffy hated when her bad feelings were proven right. Ethan _fucking_ Rayne. That was her luck alright. Of all the magic shops in all the world, Andrew just happens to bump into none other than Giles' evil ex-bestie? That sort of horrible coincidence was supposed to stop happening when she moved off the Hellmouth!

With a groan, she covered her face with her palms. She thought they were done with him after the Fyarl incident. Thinking on it, handing him over to the Initiative might not have been one of her best ideas...

Right, well, it seemed like he was just being his usual jerky self and had simply taken advantage of the opportunity presented by the gullible Andrew to cause some irritating but not world-threatening chaos. Though unlike the demon Giles situation, they had no need to panic — unfortunately for Ethan, he didn't know that they had seen the device before and knew exactly how to reverse the effects. There would be no freaking out for his entertainment this time around.

She would call Giles in the morning and see whether he thought it was worth hunting his old buddy down. Perhaps he had learned his lesson the last time and skipped town already.

She brought herself out of her inner dialogue and met Spike's worried eyes. It was so very weird to see that look of mingled love and concern that she knew so well in eyes of the wrong shade of blue.

“You know the guy, Slayer?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “So do you. Remember when Giles went all growly with the mucus and the silver allergy?”

Spike's eyes widened in remembrance. So _that_ was the git's name.

Then he scowled as he realised that never again would he be able to make a Fyarl joke in Giles' presence without the Watcher bringing up this utter humiliation.

They stood in thoughtful silence for a few moments as the urgency drained from the situation. Sure, getting Spike and Andrew back in their own bodies was a fairly immediate concern, but they knew that could be easily sorted as soon as Willow got there. The fact that there almost certainly wasn't some Big Bad ready to take advantage of the situation and the worst outcome would be a few hours' trekking around all the seedy motels in town in search of the chaos mage was a big relief for both the Slayer and her vampire.

Now, they just needed to wait.

The waiting was quite possibly the most painful thing that Buffy had endured for a long while. Usually, if she had to hang around somewhere with Spike it was easy. They could share a comfortable silence or deep conversation or just bicker over whose turn it was to do the dishes.

This wasn't like that. Even without the whingeing of Andrew — begging to be untied, moaning to be fed (then turning an interesting shade of puce at the offered mug of blood) and generally being the irritating hostage that Buffy had hoped never to have to endure again — all of which was made worse for the fact that it was _Spike's_ face and voice...

She couldn't talk to him in Andrew's body. Not about anything important. It felt like she was cheating on the man she loved. But what little silence their hostage allowed was cold and awkward.

Spike had tried smoking, despite the loud protests from the owner of his current body, but that had only resulted in him coughing up half a lung. Stupid functioning organs. He had resorted to tapping irritating rhythms on the table instead.

Eventually, her curiosity got the better of her.

“What I want to know,” she asked, “is _how_ he managed to get you at all!”

Spike scowled at her. Even without the mortification of his Andrew-possessed body, the simple fact that he had gotten into this situation in the first place was horribly embarrassing.

He did answer, though so quietly that she had to strain to understand.

“Din' see it coming, did I? Pompous twat's been greetin' me with overly enthusiastic handshakes ever since he first got delusions of bein' a Watcher.”

She managed to refrain from smiling. Just about. Fortunately, at that moment, they were distracted from the brewing argument by a loud pop of displaced air as Willow teleported directly into the apartment.

“Hey guys! Sorry it took so long — there was an issue with the plumbing that had to be resolved and I was the only one available who had the authority to speak to the contractors. But I'm here now. Let's get these boys back where they should be!”

And that was all it had taken. Two minutes after she arrived, Willow was bustling Andrew out of the front door while Buffy released her lover from the dining chair, apologizing for the lack of watery overcooked turkey gravy as she did so.

Spike was so relieved to be himself again that he barely noticed the banter. As soon as he could, he stood and wrapped his arms possessively around her. Resting his cheek on top of her head he breathed deeply, drinking in the scent he loved so much that had been notably absent while he was restricted to dull human senses.

He couldn't understand Angel's obsession with the stupid shanshu and becoming human. If the last few hours had taught him anything it was that he hated the idea of being anything but the vampire that he was. Being stuck in a weak and feeble body with limited vision, almost no sense of smell and so much internal noise that he could barely hear himself think was definitely not something he ever wanted to experience again.

“God, I missed you kitten,” he sighed into her hair.

Buffy squeezed him a little tighter. “I was right here the whole time, doofus.”

He trailed kisses down the side of her head until he was nuzzling at her throat. His words were low, desperate whispers vibrating along the skin below her ear.

“Physically you were, but I couldn't sense you anymore. Couldn't smell you. Hear your heart. _Feel_ your slayerness. It was like you were just another person. Like I lost you.”

Her heart broke a little and she realised that however disturbing the experience had been for her, it could have been so much worse. If Andrew hadn't been there, if she'd been forced to spend that time alone with Spike... even if it wasn't coming from the same direction as the body she knew held her vampire, she had still been able to sense him. That distinctive tingle at the back of her neck that said _Spike is here_. The idea of _not_ feeling that while standing next to him was horrifying. She suddenly understood that the experience was so much worse for Spike than she had imagined. Even in Faith's body, she had retained her Slayer senses.

She didn't know what to say. Buffy and words had never been very mixy things. Especially when it came to Spike. Still, she managed to find some words that seemed to do the job.

“I'm here. I'm yours and I'm not going anywhere.”


	4. One Night

“I'm here. I'm yours and I'm not going anywhere.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and hit the OFF button on the remote, cutting off the heartfelt confession of the soulful-eyed movie star before they could get to the romantic clinch. What on earth had possessed her, to think a rom-com was going to make her feel better? 

She’d been watching movies all evening, starting out with Dawn and her mom by her side, but Dawn had been sent up (under protest) at her usual bedtime and Joyce had drifted upstairs not long after, and meanwhile Buffy had popped in another tape and kept on watching, hoping liberal application of cheesy romance and Chunky Monkey would improve her mood.

It had not.

When the manly-yet-sensitive hero and the beautiful-yet-relatable heroine had met in the cutest possible way, Buffy had rolled her eyes. When he’d rhapsodized awkwardly over her charms, Buffy had yawned. When she’d fallen literally into her hero’s arms, Buffy had almost thrown the remote at the TV, muttering, “Gravity doesn’t work that way!” And when they’d reached their final declarations, she’d had enough.

“Oh, sure, you’re not going anywhere,” she grumbled at the blank screen. “Not until you decide she’s not good enough for you after all. Then you’ll fly off to Costa Rica or Brazil or… or drive off to LA and start a detective agency, or… or…. You’ll leave. You always leave!”

She scooped up a huge bite of ice cream and shoved it in her mouth, the rich sweetness barely staving off tears. She’d made it through the initial shock of Riley’s abrupt departure, and by now she’d also stopped expecting him to come back, which she supposed had been the “denial” phase, because she had definitely made it to stage three of grief: anger. Oh, was she angry. Downright furious, at Riley for leaving, and at Angel for leaving before that, and at her dad and Parker and all the guys who’d left, who’d decided that she, Buffy Summers, wasn’t good enough for them to stay.

“It’s not fair,” she commiserated with her next spoonful of ice cream. “They always leave. Why can’t I be the one to do the leaving once in a while? Why should they always get the dramatic exit, with the fog and the mood lighting?” She popped her ice cream confidante in her mouth, not really expecting an answer. 

“What I should do,” she groused to herself through the mouthful of ice cream, “is go out somewhere and find a guy, get him all worked up, get him hooked, and then walk away. Men are all jerks and liars anyhow. They deserve it.” A tiny, loyal corner of her brain tried to pipe up and tell her that maybe Xander and Giles weren’t all that bad, but the much larger pissed-off part of her brain was quickly able to crush that argument with incidents in which both men had been jerks and/or liars, even though she’d mostly forgiven them. And while it wouldn’t be anything like real revenge, dumping some guy she’d just met, it would be a nice symbolic boost to help her get over things. The more she thought about it, the more she liked it. It was petty, and mean, and probably pointless, but to be fair, she was really, really mad.

The problem with her revenge plan, she sighed, scraping up the last dribbles of ice cream, was that the Bronze was closed due to aggravated Act of Troll. There had always been lots of random schmoes at the Bronze looking for a hookup; if the Bronze were open, all she’d have to do was go dance, wait for a likely sucker, let him hit on her for a bit, and then kick him to the curb. (Figuratively, of course. She wasn’t a monster!) So there was another thing that was unfair -- how dare the Bronze thwart her sweet symbolic revenge just because the troll had made the building structurally unstable? What mattered more, the professional opinions of some stupid architect or the vengeance needs of long-time paying customer Buffy Summers?

She supposed she could go out on patrol, find some vampires to take her anger out on, but… well, the problem was, she wasn’t angry in a killing-things way. She was angry as a woman, angry and hurt and feeling like Molly Ringwald in the first half of a John Hughes movie, all insecure and unwanted, and she felt like she had to have her anger soothed as a woman, not as a slayer.

It was stupid, she knew it, just as she knew with her brain that she was (reasonably) smart, pretty, and likeable, but it didn’t keep her from wanting to have her charms confirmed by someone else. There was probably some psychological reason for that which she would understand if her psychology class hadn’t been abruptly cut off by her professor being skewered before the midterm review, but right now she didn’t really care to analyze it. She just wanted to  _ feel _ pretty, just for one night. Pretty and powerful and in charge.

Stupid Bronze. Stupid troll. Super-stupid Riley.

She sat up with a start, dropping her spoon.  _ Stupid Buffy!  _ Cordelia might have once said the Bronze was the only club worth going to, but it wasn’t the only club in Sunnydale. There were a dozen clubs or more just within walking distance of campus, all of them overflowing with college boys looking to score. All she had to do was show up in something skimpy and she’d have someone to torment in no time. And if she didn’t, at least she’d get to dance. That would definitely improve her mood.

For a moment she considered calling up Willow and Xander, see if they wanted to come along, but she nixed that idea almost immediately. She had the feeling they wouldn’t approve of her plans -- which were, she knew, kind of mean, but that was the point. They had good things going with their sweeties, both of them, and they probably wouldn’t understand her need for pointless, vague revenge on the tribe of Men. Okay, Anya probably would, but she’d already let slip that she thought Buffy was the problem in her failed relationships, which was not the attitude she needed from a wingman.

No, this was something Buffy just had to do for herself. And after all, it was just one night.

Decision made, Buffy dashed upstairs to change.

*

Spike knew the second she walked in the club, from the way the little hairs on the back of his neck struggled against the bonds of hair gel to stand to attention, and he turned with a resigned sigh to watch her grand entrance.  _ Of course, _ he grumbled to himself.  _ Wrack your bloody brain finding the one place the slayer’s least likely to show her pretty face, and that’s the one place she decides to put in a bloody appearance. _

He’d wanted a night away from his women troubles, just one night that he wasn’t trailing after the slayer like a bloody lapdog or putting up with Harmony’s increasingly-unwelcome attempts at seduction. The problem with being love’s bitch was that it meant being constantly buggered by one’s own heart, and not in the fun way. He couldn’t brawl and he couldn’t kill and he couldn’t touch the one woman he wanted to make love to, and so he’d planned on drowning himself in a bottle for a night, and picked a pretentious goth shithole to do it in, one he’d deemed too seedy for the slayer to grace with her shiny blonde hair. 

Just one night of respite, that’s all he’d wanted. But apparently that was too much to ask.

Buffy was dressed to dance, flimsy red handkerchief top and a leather skirt so short he found himself tilting his head to the side, hoping he’d catch a glimpse of her knickers; she had on calf-high boots with chunky heels and nothing at all on her golden legs and god, she was gorgeous, every part of him was standing to attention now, watching her saunter over to the dance floor, casually dropping her jacket on an empty chair, and he waited for her friends to form their usual knot around her, like minor planets orbiting the sun, but instead her eyes drifted closed and she just started to dance. 

Alone.

She wasn’t alone for long, of course; they came to her like moths to a flame, punk-wannabe college kids in ripped jeans and ironic T-shirts, drawn to the gravity of her orbit, but though she acknowledged them with glances and smiles, she didn’t seem to favor any of them, just kept dancing, and Spike kept watching, wishing he dared join the mob of satellites.

Was odd, her being there without her mates, though. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was out looking for a shag, but of course that couldn’t possibly be. More likely she just wanted to dance, and she’d be leaving a trail of men with hopelessly blue balls behind her this evening.

Including him, of course, but he was used to it by now.

He settled in on his barstool to enjoy the show.

*

Buffy had felt a subtle tingling at the end of her nerves since she entered the club, and she thought for a bit that it was just the naughty excitement of being out on the town with the express purpose of being bad, but as she kept on dancing, occasionally exchanging a few words with the boys who’d gathered around her, she finally had to admit that it wasn’t titillation and excitement because… she just wasn’t that excited. 

She kept observing the guys on the dance floor with her, trying to choose her victim, but as she considered each one, the idea of taking her flirting further, turning it into actual advances, just didn’t appeal. She tried to tell herself that it was because she was just too nice to be bad to guys that hadn’t done her any actual harm, but she knew it was a lie even as she thought it. She wasn’t always nice, and she wasn’t always good. The real reason she wasn’t interested in being bad to any of the guys who’d approached was that she just wasn’t... interested.

She was, in fact, bored. Not by the dancing, of course -- dancing was always good -- but by the company. Not one of them had caught her attention at all.

Once she had admitted that fact to herself, she then was forced to admit that her tingly skin was zero percent due to naughtiness and one hundred percent due to evilness. Vampiric evilness, to be specific. There was a vampire in the club, and she sighed inwardly as she started to casually scan the crowd, trying to find her prey.

For Pete’s sake, she’d just wanted one night of being bad. But apparently that was too much to ask.

She should have known it was Spike all along; when she saw him lounging on a stool at the bar, eyes fixed on her, it felt inevitable, like Halley’s Comet, the vampire circling back around to bring annoyance into her life on a regular basis. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she kept dancing, adding a little extra slink to her moves. He didn’t seem to be causing trouble, just watching her, occasionally taking a drink from a tumbler on the bar, and something about the way his eyes were fixed on her made her tingle more, and she suddenly realized that Spike was the answer to all her problems.

She might feel guilty later on about stringing along some random college guy and then walking away -- but she wouldn’t feel guilty walking away from Spike. In fact, she’d enjoy it, not least because of the humiliation she’d felt, knowing Spike knew what Riley’d been up to, he knew that she hadn’t been enough to keep Riley satisfied. Spike was the only one who’d directly witnessed her pain -- and that was more pettiness, her wanting some kind of payback for that humiliation, but she didn’t feel like being fair tonight.

Spike was, in fact, the perfect target for her vengeance.

She put her plan into motion when the music changed, going from a driving rock beat to something low and sensual, and as her boring-guy vultures tried to circle in to claim a slow dance, she turned and walked straight up to the bar, straight up to Spike. He barely moved, watching her through his eyelashes as she approached.

“What are you doing here, Spike?” Not the sexiest of pickup lines, but she had the feeling he’d bolt if she didn’t give him some normalcy to start things off.

“Right now? Watching you dance,” he said in a low voice, lips curving in a faint smile.

She raised her eyebrows challengingly. “See anything you like?”

He grinned then, tongue curling behind his teeth. “I keep hoping your skirt will ride up that last quarter inch. ‘M dying to know what color your knickers are.”

Ooh, more tingles there. Not the vampire kind, either. “Maybe you should come take a closer look.”

His face went slack with confusion. “You feeling all right, slayer?”

She rolled her eyes. “Come dance with me.” She curled her hand into the lapel of his duster, tugging him to his feet.

He was unsteady on his feet when he got up there, though it didn’t seem he was drunk. “You want to dance with your mortal enemy?” His voice dripped disbelief.

“I want to dance with you,” she said firmly, then turned and walked towards the dance floor.

He swore under his breath, but she heard him following her, and when she got to the dance floor and claimed an empty space, he was there with her, sliding behind her and setting his hands on her hips. They were weirdly tentative for a guy who’d been throwing innuendo her way for years, as uncertain as the awkward pat of comfort he’d given her a few weeks back, before her mom’s surgery. It was oddly endearing, like the awkward dances of junior high.

But she wasn’t twelve any more, and tonight was her one night to be bad, and so she slid one arm back up around his neck and started to dance, rolling her body sensually against his. He was turned on, she realized, a wave of dizziness crashing over her at the thought; she could feel his erection brushing against her, the denim of his jeans swishing against her leather skirt, and she added more swing to her hips, that soft rasping sound and the feel of his arousal weirdly exciting. She set her free hand on top of his, and in response he growled low in his throat and tightened his fingers, leaning in to place his lips by her ear.

“Let me guess,” he murmured in a hard voice. “Got a bloke on the other side of the room you’re trying to make jealous?”

“Nope,” she whispered back, fingers stroking the nape of his neck. “That’s strike one.”

He chuckled. “Lost a bet?” He tugged back on her hips, grinding into her with a bit more purpose.

“Strike two.” God, this was fun, having Spike on her hook.

“What happens if I strike out?” His lips were right up against her ear now, the vibrations making her shiver.

“I haven’t decided,” she breathed. “Maybe I stake you.” She dragged his hand across her belly, low. “Maybe not. What do you think?”

He didn’t answer that with words, just dipped his head a bit further and caught her earlobe between his teeth, tugging gently, and she felt her breath catch with unexpected excitement.

They danced for a little while more in silence, moving infinitesimally closer with every beat of the music, until there was no space between them at all, Buffy undulating her hips right up against Spike’s denim-clad erection and listening to him groan in her ear. He was a good dancer; she could feel the rhythm and flow of the dance coursing through him as they moved, and she relaxed into the sensual glide, her body humming with pleasure and just a little frustration. She hadn't been touched in way too long.

When the music changed to an even slower song, she turned in Spike’s arms and looked up at him, grinning at the vaguely-befuddled, vaguely-pissed look on his face. She glided both hands up around his neck and pressed in close, rubbing her breasts up against him for good measure. His eyes narrowed at the contact and she did it again, and again, because it felt so damn good; she couldn’t wear a bra under the near-backless shirt, and the fabric slid deliciously over her nipples. She was, she admitted reluctantly, blazingly turned on; if she’d been dancing with her actual boyfriend, or a guy she liked, she’d have been dropping hints about getting some privacy. It was a shame it was Spike who had her all hot and bothered, and that she wasn’t planning on taking it any further than this. 

“Aren’t you going to guess again?” she whispered, getting back to her plan. 

“Figured there was no right answer,” he growled, fingers tracing the laces criss-crossing her back. “Rather not know, at this point. You’ll just walk away.”

“Ooh, smart move,” Buffy breathed, tugging his head down so his lips were close to hers. “But what if not asking makes me walk away sooner? Maybe I want you to ask.”

“Maybe you’re just playing me,” he murmured, leaning in so his lips brushed her cheek with the words. His hands slid back down to settle on her ass, his fingers tracing circles on the leather.

“Maybe I am.” 

He glared at her. “Maybe I should be the one to walk away.”

Buffy’s fingers tightened. “No. You don’t want to do that.” That was definitely the opposite of the plan. She undulated closer, pulsing her belly against his erection.

“Why shouldn’t I?” His eyes glittered.

She went up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “If you leave, you’ll never know what color I’m wearing.”

He pulled her hips tight against his. “Now I know you’re playing me.”

“Am I?” She tilted her mouth up to his and kissed him, lips parted.

He kissed her back, urgently, then set her a little away from himself. “You are.” His eyes were dark and intense in the neon-lit club.

She grinned up at him. “There you go, Spike. Home run.” She tossed her hair defiantly. “You’re right. I am playing you.” She rubbed in close again, feeling daring and risky and electric. 

He laughed faintly, in disbelief. “All right, then. What’s your game?” He placed an almost-affectionate kiss on the crown of her head, as if her admission had made all right with the world again.

“Men suck,” she said in a low, seductive voice, rubbing her cheek into his chest. “You’re all with the promises, and the _ I-love-you _ s, and the  _ you’re-not-like-all-the-others _ ...es, but then you leave. You always leave. It’s not fair.”

“‘M right here, Slayer. Not going anywhere.” One of his hands traced the line of her spine.

“I didn’t mean  _ you _ , you. I mean you, men in general. Men leave.”

“Right.” Spike swayed with her to the music, his hands almost absently mapping out her curves. “How exactly does that translate into you, here, offering to let me see your knickers?”

Buffy leaned back, glaring at Spike. “I’m tired of being left behind. I want to be the one to walk away, just once.”

He glared back. “So your plan is to dance with me, flash your knickers, and then walk away.”

“The plan,” Buffy whispered, “is to make you want me. The dancing is just a means to an end.”

“You want me to want you,” he repeated, one hand coming up to curve around her cheek. His eyes were crinkled up as if something were very, very funny, but his lips weren’t smiling; they were parted in a way that just begged to be kissed, and so she did, letting her teeth drag along his lower lip.

“I want you insane with wanting me,” Buffy murmured, letting her lips brush his. “I want you to feel like you’ll die if you don’t have me, and then… then I get to be the one to leave.”

“Diabolical,” Spike whispered against her lips, stealing a tiny nibble of a kiss. “Except for the part where you just told me the whole bloody plan. Perhaps I’ll just leave now.”

“Go ahead,” Buffy challenged. “I’ll just find someone else to torture.” Her words felt like a bluff as she said them, though; she didn’t really want to find someone else, not when she was already feeling so warm and tingly and turned-on, just from dancing. And wouldn’t it be so much worse for him if she gave him just a little taste of what he’d be losing? Like actually let him catch a glimpse up her skirt, or… or maybe even a little more. That would be much more vengey. 

This was her one night to be bad. She just didn’t feel like she’d been bad enough, not yet. 

“Suppose I could take one for the team,” Spike sighed dramatically. “Me being just loaded with sympathy for my fellow man. But I should warn you, it takes a lot to drive me insane.”

“Are you saying I’m not up to the task?” Buffy slipped a hand between them, stroking along the hard length of his cock. 

He sucked in a breath through his teeth, then grinned ferally. “I’m saying I would love to see you try. Go ahead, Slayer. Play me. Let’s see who goes around the bloody bend.”

“All right, then,” Buffy smiled sweetly. “Let’s play.”

She wound her hand in the lapel of his duster again and tugged him along with her as she left the dance floor, walking fast. If she was going to drive Spike insane with wanting her, she needed some damn privacy.

The club was one of the gothier college hangouts around the university, one large central room with a stage for live bands and a mazelike tangle of smaller dance rooms and corridors, with a blaring sound system piped throughout, the walls painted matte black and lit with unshaded light bulbs and flashing lasers. Buffy and her friends had always avoided it because of its reputation for volume and sleaziness -- the very reason she had chosen it tonight -- and they passed several couples locked in various stages of making out before they reached a nook Buffy deemed private enough for her purposes, a dim little hallway that led to a door marked PRIVATE. She turned and set her back to the door, pulling Spike in for a rough, passionate kiss. 

He pulled away again after. “This really you, Slayer?” he growled, eyes searching hers. “Not some body-snatcher or doppelganger or--”

“It’s me, dammit,” she growled back, frustrated at the interruption. “Now do I have to go find some other guy out there to make out with, or are you going to kiss me?”

He made a garbled sound of frustration, but then his lips were on hers and he was kissing her, really kissing her, not like the teasing half-kisses out on the dance floor, lips and tongue and teeth all coming together, and oh god, it felt good, his tongue against hers and his body pressing her into the door; she rubbed her body against him and kissed him and ran her hands over his chest and back and ass, loving the way he shook at her touch. He was as frantic as she, his hands urgently kneading her breasts through the fabric of her shirt and then sliding underneath, thumbs abrading her bare nipples to hardness, but it wasn’t enough, she wanted more, more, her body was on fire, her belly aching with want, and she hiked up her leg and hooked her knee over his hip, her skirt scooting up her thighs, and then his cock was all up against her, hard against her crotch, nothing but the fabric of his jeans and her panties between them, and the contact made her cry out into his mouth.

He groaned deep in his throat and started to rock against her, the denim rough against the wet fabric of her underwear, and oh god it felt fantastic. She let her head fall back against the door and gave herself over to the friction and the rhythm, pumping her hips into Spike’s thrusts, little  _ oh _ s of pleasure escaping from her lips with each stroke. Spike’s hands were under her skirt, then, curving around her ass and lifting her, and she slung up her other leg, hooking her ankles behind his back and riding the ridge of his cock desperately, back against the door, feeling swollen and hot and insatiable, dripping with arousal, and she vaguely realized Spike had stopped kissing her, was just watching her intently as she pleasured herself on him, but she had stopped caring so much about making him want her, she wanted to damn well get off, she could already feel her orgasm building and she peaked with a gasp, the jolt sending her legs kicking, and Spike swore under his breath, his fingers tightening on her ass, and then her legs were sliding down to the ground and he had his hand back up under her skirt, delving under her panties, exploring her swollen folds, and then he found her clit, his finger flicking at the hard nub, and she clutched at his arms as she came again, hard and sharp.

“Bloody hell,” Spike muttered, fingers still exploring her, sliding further down to drive inside, pumping in time with the booming music. 

Buffy managed to toss her hair back, grinning up at him even as she hitched her hips into his strokes. “Insane yet?”

“Not yet,” he crooned gently. He leaned in closer, lips brushing her ear as he spoke, fingers still driving in and out. “You want to know what would drive me right round the bloody bend and into next week? If I got to taste you.” His fingers gave a long meaningful stroke through her wetness and then back inside her, stretching her deliciously, and she listened to his words, mesmerized. “Right here. Want to get down on my knees and worship your sweet quim, lick and suck and taste every bit of you, feel you come against my tongue.”

Buffy was panting as she imagined it. God, she was crazy to even consider it, but… this was her one night to be bad. And she wasn’t ready to stop yet, wasn’t ready to walk away from the way Spike was making her feel. “And that would drive you insane?” 

“Bloody bonkers,” he vowed.

She peeked past his shoulder, at the corridor beyond. “Not here.” 

Spike raised his eyebrows challengingly. “Where?”

Buffy glanced around frantically, not wanting to go hunting for another, yet more private place, not when Spike’s fingers were doing amazing things inside her, and her eyes fell on the doorknob that had been poking into her hip since they got there; she set a shaking hand to it, and it turned. “In here.”

Spike kept his hand shoved down her underpants as they awkwardly got the door open and stumbled inside.

Buffy had expected it to be a closet, but it turned out to be a dressing room, large enough for a band, one wall lined with the traditional tables and mirrors surrounded by bulbs; she managed to lock the door behind them as Spike walked her backward and then he heaved her up to sit on the edge of the makeup table, one arm snaking out to flip the light switch. The lights around the mirror came up with an electric hum, radiating in Buffy’s peripheral vision. It was like she was glowing, the way the light flowed about her, which only felt right, because her skin felt incandescent with desire.

“Bloody gorgeous,” Spike muttered, almost to himself, and then he was on his knees, pressing her thighs wide, and he licked her right through her wet panties and she cried out low and harsh, barely recognizing her own voice, and clutched at his head, rocking into the sinful rhythm of his tongue.

He licked and mouthed her through her panties for what felt like an eternity, tenderly sucking her clit through the cotton until she was kicking at his back with her booted heels, and then he chuckled and his hands tugged at the waistband elastic, yanking the panties down her thighs and past her knees and over her boots and then his mouth was on her bare flesh, his tongue hard and demanding, and she urged him on with hands and voice, shaking as he licked her, long strokes of his tongue all the way along her folds, sometimes breaking rhythm to suck her throbbing clit between his lips, or flick it with his tongue, or god knew what else, she only knew it was like nothing she'd ever felt before, and oh god, she was coming again, she could feel it building, feel her muscles drawing tight like the waters receding before a tsunami, and he kept licking and sucking and nibbling and she yelled as she came, pounding at his back with her fists as the wave crashed over her, and then she shoved him away, down to the ground, and she followed him down, straddling him, hands frantic on his jeans, because she needed him inside her, needed him now, she wanted to fuck him, she was going to die if she didn’t have him, and as she freed his cock, hands stroking feverishly along his length, she reassured herself that this was all still part of the plan, that fucking Spike and walking away would be the sweetest revenge ever, because Riley had hated Spike, and Angel had hated Spike, and so she was paying them all back, every one of them, and her hands and Spike’s mingled as they fit his cock to her and then she took him inside, thrusting hard.

It felt momentous, like the world had shifted on its axis, but she was too far gone to stop and savor the moment; she arched her back and writhed against him, taking him deeper and deeper with every roll of her hips, reveling in his hands hard on her waist and the feel of him bucking beneath her, the look of wonder and passion and ecstasy on his face, and oh god oh god the feel of him inside her, she was stretched and swollen and aching and each thrust made the ache sharper and deeper and more desperate and she came again, arching back as her whole body spasmed, and then he rolled her over, still pumping inside her but at a glacial pace, eyes half closed as he watched her face. She clutched at him, lost to everything but sensation as he fucked her slow and deep, stroking her reverently, pressing fervent kisses to her throat and shoulders and trembling lips, relentless even when she started to quake, and when at last she shuddered to completion, sinking from mind-blowing ecstasy into a reverie of satiation, he buried his forehead in her shoulder and thrust fast and hard until he spilled inside her, swearing.

Buffy stroked the smooth leather over his back, gently, adrift in afterglow. “ _ Now _ are you insane?”

“Yeah,” he laughed shakily. “Complete sack of hammers.”

He kissed her then and she kissed him back, still feeling loose and hot and beautiful, wondering if her one night of being bad could go on a little longer. Long enough to do that again, at least. Maybe twice, and with less clothing on. Wow.

But then Spike raised himself on his elbow, looking down at her seriously. “We don’t always leave,” he murmured, brushing a knuckle against her shoulder.

“What?”

“Men. We don’t always leave.” He kissed her cheek. “Some of us stay.”

“Not with me,” Buffy whispered, and just like that her good feeling was gone. 

Spike’s chin set mutinously. “I don’t leave.”

“It’s not about you,” Buffy said in a small voice, sitting up. “And it’s not about them. It’s about me.”

“What about you?”

She looked at him angrily. “You’re right. Guys don’t always leave. It’s just me. I’m the one they leave. I’m the problem here.”

“What the bloody hell are you on about?”

“I’m the common denominator,” she went on stubbornly. “It’s not them. It’s not that they’re the leaving type. I’m just the type that gets left behind.”

Spike sat up and kissed her then, hard. “I wouldn’t leave you.”

“You would,” Buffy said shortly. “You’d get bored of me, and you’d leave. I bet you wouldn’t even last a year. Less.” She stood up and yanked her skirt back into place, scanning the room for her panties.

“I wouldn’t get bored!” Spike looked offended now, lounging back on the ground, still fully dressed except for his undone jeans; she valiantly tried to ignore the fact that his cock was hard again, curving deliciously against his belly, still slick and wet with their spendings but clearly ready for more, and she quashed the shiver of lust that thought sent through her body.

“You would. You couldn’t even wait three days to kill me, when we first met. If you saw me every day, you’d leave me, too. You wouldn’t even make it a year. I bet you wouldn’t even make it a hundred days.” Where had she kicked her underwear off to?

“I would,” he said in a low, fervent voice. “I’d stay true for a hundred years.”

“No, Spike, you wouldn’t,” Buffy insisted, ignoring the little voice inside that reminded her that he had done just that for Drusilla. Except that was depressing, too, the thought that the mad vampire was worth staying with long-term, and Buffy was not. She gave up on looking for her panties and set her hands to her hips, glaring down at him. “But you’re not going to get to try, because our night of playing is done. This is me, walking away.”

Spike looked like he had something to say to that, but his mouth closed with a snap, and he waved at her dismissively, looking away. If she didn’t know better, she’d think his feelings were hurt. But obviously that couldn’t be the case. Spike hated her, and she hated him. They’d just been… playing each other. It was all just a game, one night only.

God help her, she still wanted him, though. Which was at least a little bit insane. 

With a final furious glare at the vampire on the floor, Buffy turned and walked out of the dressing room on shaky legs, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Oh god. What had just happened?

*

Spike glared at the door in befuddled rage, trying to figure out what the bloody buggering fuck had just happened.

It wasn’t the first time Buffy had deliberately made him mad with lust. There’d been that one time when she’d promised to make him pop like warm champagne, then pranced away like it was nothing; he’d learned later, though, that it had been that other slayer hopping a ride in Buffy’s body, the criminally insane one, which had made more sense to him even as he’d felt weirdly disappointed. Then when they’d been bespelled to be engaged, she’d rubbed her sweet body all over him, promising glories to be found on their wedding night, leaving him bereft and frustrated when the spell had broken and she’d gone back to just hating him. Even the night they’d spent exploring Spike’s past had been oddly sexual, Buffy straddling him and sparring with him in an erotic dance that had ended with her treating him like a two-dollar whore. He’d expected tonight to go much the same way -- she’d declared her intentions right up front, even, and he’d jumped on the train of her game knowing he’d be left frustrated, just because he couldn’t resist her.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out the damp underwear he’d automatically stuffed there when he’d stripped them off her.  _ Red.  _ He’d not even registered that at the time, in his eagerness to take what she’d granted him. That had been… unexpected, to say the least.

He had absolutely not expected Buffy to shag him into the floor. Though he had to hand it to her, she was a woman of her word. She’d very definitely driven him insane with desire and walked away.

He wouldn’t have minded if she’d proven herself a liar by staying.

Spike closed his eyes and replayed the events in his head, examining Buffy’s actions for signs she’d been anything but herself, but… it all seemed absolutely  _ her _ , from the banter on the dance floor to the crushing parting shot, and all the glorious blazing moments in between. Especially the ridiculous rot at the end, where she’d somehow managed to conclude that she was unworthy of a man’s love and devotion. Angelus had really done a number on the poor twig, and Captain Cardboard after him, and even as Spike boggled at the idea she could not realize how bloody amazing she was, he recognized it as intrinsically Buffy, a weakness he’d played on before. It was just like her, not to see how much she glowed.

What would it take, he suddenly wondered, to make her see that glow? To accept herself as wondrous, magical, effulgent? Worthy of love?

_ If you saw me every day, you’d leave me, too. You wouldn’t even make it a year. I bet you wouldn’t even make it a hundred days. _

Her words echoed in his memory, and they seemed so much like a call to action that he leapt to his feet, stumbling a little from the binding of his undone jeans around his thighs. He hastily did up his trousers so that he looked as much a man of action as he felt, more champion than gigolo, despite the rock-hard erection he’d painfully stuffed away. 

“I’ll show you, Slayer,” Spike growled. “I’ll show you what William the Bloody is capable of, and then you’ll….” He trailed off. What  _ did _ he want her to do? 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors Notes: So I got my prompt, and after playing with it for a bit, my idea popped! The best fic idea ever! (As they all are, when they pop.) The problem was, the idea was for an epic story that could in no way fit adequately into EC guidelines or be finished in my allotted week. Thankfully, the smutty prelude stands alone. Keep an eye out for a continuation someday!
> 
> Thanks to Sigyn for giving this a quick beta before posting!


	5. The Gamble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poems included (in order) are: I Carry Your Heart With Me by E.E. Cummings, Sylvia by Sir George Etherege, and If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

“I’ll show you, Slayer,” Spike growled. “I’ll show you what William the Bloody is capable of, and then you’ll….” He trailed off. What did he want her to do?

Date him? 

What would be the point of that, when he’d come here originally to win his Dru back? 

Admit there was more to him than death and gore? 

Because a slayer’s endorsement was just what was missing to make his life complete- he couldn’t even think it without laughing. 

Maybe he wanted her to validate the fact that anyone would be lucky to have him? That SHE would be lucky to have him? Her, with her golden hair, and fiery spirit, and eyes that sparkled when she laughed and... shit. 

SHIT.

He might actually have a thing for the slayer. 

Goddamn Dru and her spouting bollocks about ashes and sunshine. She was the reason the absurd idea even crossed his mind. It was all Dru’s fault.

He set his shoulders, turned, and began the trek to Willy’s. It was perfect- all the booze he needed to forget the insane notion that he actually wanted to date Buffy Summers, and gambling to provide the dosh he’d need if he was going to win this bet.

~

The next morning, Buffy reclined across her best friend’s bed. 

“So, he’s whining on and on about how Dru would never have better than him and she should’ve seen what she had and not left and blah blah blah blah.”

“Ugh,” Willow interjected sympathetically.

“And finally, I’ve had enough and I snap back with something along the lines of ‘I bet you couldn’t be romantic in a million years’ and he’s like ‘don’t need a million years love, just a week to set up a date,’ so of course I was like ‘yeah, right’-”

“Major eyeroll.”

“-Right! That’s exactly what I was thinking. But suddenly he got all serious and was like, ‘How’s this- give me the week and I’ll show you just how romantic I can be. If I don’t knock your socks off, I’ll’- and get this- ‘finance your idea of a perfect day, including shopping’ and then proceeded to swear up and down that he’d get the money legally. “

Willow crinkled her nose, considering.

“But can’t you just say it’s horrible no matter what?”

“That’s where you come in, Wills. Part of the insanely detailed bet we settled on. After the date I need you to cast a truth spell before I vote.”

She looked a little worried. 

“What insane details?”

Buffy waved a hand dismissively. 

“He’s bagging it until he’s out of town, said something about not letting me stake away his winnings. The truth spell, itself. What exactly has to be asked under it, and what’s considered a win for either side.”

“I’m a little afraid to ask- what do you have to do if he wins? And what about Angel?”

Buffy laughed bitterly.

“What about Angel? We aren’t together anymore, Wills, we can’t be. And I can’t keep him in my life as some hovering influence. Spike was right about one thing earlier- we won’t ever be friends if we keep going how we are now. I can’t run all my decisions through an Angel filter- I might love him, but I can’t be friends with him if I still think of him as my boyfriend. And we CAN be friends- Spike was wrong about that part, for sure. 

“As for the winning- some sort of ‘favor’ at a later date. He went out of his way to assure me he wouldn’t ask anything outside my comfort zone as someone with a soul, so there’s that.” 

At Willow’s skeptical look, she reassured her, “He’s not going to win though, I mean, it’s SPIKE!”

“Right. It’s Spike...” 

Willow agreed aloud, but inside she was still anxious. She couldn’t help but feel this wasn’t going to turn out to be the simple win her best friend had planned.

~

That evening, the doorbell rang at Revello Drive. When Joyce opened it, she was greeted with a large bouquet being held by a delivery man.

“Sign for these, please?” the man asked, holding out a clipboard.

When she got them into the kitchen, she grabbed a vase from the cupboard and began searching for the card.

“Buffy!”

Her daughter came scurrying down the stairs and into the kitchen. “What’s up?”

Joyce handed over the card with ‘Buffy Summers’ printed in calligraphic script on the envelope.

“For me?” 

She wrinkled her nose. There was enough difference in the repeat letters in her name for her to realize the writing had been penned by hand. Her disbelief grew as she opened the envelope and pulled out the small card.

“You are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing”  
Looking forward to our date,  
-W

“Who’s it from, sweetheart?” Joyce asked, concerned by the stricken look on her daughter’s face.

“So, I made a bet earlier...” 

Buffy proceeded to tell Joyce all about the incident with Spike.

“Let me get this straight- you made a bet with Spike, a man who spent over a hundred years completely devoted to a single woman, that he couldn’t be a good date?”

Her mother’s disapproving raised eyebrows were more than she could take. 

“Oh god,” she groaned, “What did I just do?”

“I think you just stuck yourself in a losing bet with a Victorian poet, dear. If I’d been there, I would’ve told you not to take it. There’s a reason 19th century writers were called ‘the romantics.’”

Buffy’s only response was to bang her head on the counter a few times.

“Oh, look on the bright side, honey! At least the flowers are gorgeous.”

Buffy lifted her head up, taking in the beautiful array of red roses, lilies, and other small flowers she couldn’t name. 

“Yeah, I guess they are...”

~

Sunnydale didn’t have after-dark flower delivery, so Spike wasn’t able to spy on her reaction when she received his gift. When he peered through the windows after dark, though, he saw that the flowers had been put in a vase and displayed on the center of the dining room table.

“Hm, seems I’ve still got it.”

He sighed. He’d been able to ignore the butterflies in his stomach while they were there, but now that they were gone, he couldn’t ignore their absence. 

He was relieved. 

He had actually been worried. 

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t start putting his self-worth on this, but it seemed he’d already started to. The fear he had of finding the flowers in the trash told him that much.

Spike took off to the cemetery. He needed to kill something, and since it couldn’t be a human due to the truce, he might as well hunt down some demons. Besides, she was the slayer. Maybe helping with her job would almost count in the romance category... 

...which, hey! Was a good idea!

~

Buffy hadn’t heard from Spike at all since the flowers came the previous afternoon. She tried not to be disappointed, but she might have gotten her hopes up a little when he’d started pulling out all the stops on the first day.

She should’ve known that with Spike it would come when she least expected it.

An hour or so after dark, Buffy made her way into her room to change for patrol and grab weapons. But, when she reached the bed, she noticed another envelope. 

This one was gold, but had her name written in the same handwriting as the first. 

Her decision to smile was subconscious as she unfolded the paper and began to read. 

“Her mouth, from whence wit still obligingly flows  
Has the beautiful blush, and the smell, of the rose.  
Love and Destiny both attend on her will;  
She wounds with a look; with a frown, she can kill.”  
Even a power house like you deserves a night off, Slayer. Take a night to relax; I’ll patrol for you.  
-W

Should she trust it? He could be lying about patrolling. But hell, even if he was, what was one night off? Her bed looked so comfortable and warm, just sitting there tauntingly in front of her.

She could always nap for a little while...

~

When Spike finished patrol, he decided to peek in on Buffy and see if she listened to him. His smile was far warmer than it likely should have been when he saw the slayer, still dressed, curled up on top of her bedspread. 

She was fast asleep.

He’d spent the day making plans for their date, and he was hopeful that he’d managed to come up with a good idea. The problem he’d run into, however, was that the week deadline he’d originally taken would’ve placed the date on a Monday. He walked back to the hotel he’d shacked up in, planning to get advice from the slayer’s mother before deciding anything else.

~

He came through the sewers the next day while Buffy was at school. Joyce was surprised when she answered the door.

“Spike! How are you?” She noticed the smoke wafting through his blanket and ushered him inside. “Come in, come in.”

“’M doin’ fine, thanks, Joyce. Has Buffy told you about the little bet we made, yet?”

“Yes, she did.” She smiled broadly at him. “I did tell her she’s probably going to lose, but I can’t lie that I’m excited to hear about your plans ahead of time.”

“Well, the first thing I wanted to do was clear some things with you- the original bet placed the date on Monday night, but I know Buffy misses enough school as the slayer.” 

Joyce’s concern for her daughter’s academics was something they’d chatted about when he’d come to her for hot cocoa and a shoulder to cry on.

“Right,” she nodded.

“I was thinking I would leave a note moving the date up to tomorrow night- that way there’s no school and you might be willing to move her curfew back an hour or so.”

“That sounds like a wonderful plan, dear.”

“I was also hoping you wouldn’t mind me providing her and Willow with spa vouchers for most of the day tomorrow.”

“You’re pulling out all the stops, aren’t you?” Joyce was impressed. 

She chuckled, “How did my daughter manage to wheel in someone like you and all I ever got was left for a secretary?”

Joyce bit her lip, trying not to laugh harder at the flustered look on Spike’s face. 

“She didn’t wheel me in! It’s a bet! Just a bet!”

“I’m sure it is,” she responded knowingly.

Instead of replying, Spike grumbled under his breath about know-it-all women thinking there was more going on than there was.

“It’s fine for Buffy to spend the day out tomorrow, Spike. And just so you know, if you ever drop the denial and decide you do actually like her, I’ll be rooting for you.”

Spike looked up sharply. “You will?”

Joyce smiled. “Yes, I will. You’re strong enough to get by in Buffy’s world, and you’re a good man underneath it all.”

Spike looked at her a minute, something like awe and disbelief warring in his eyes. Finally, he ducked his head down and ran his fingers through his hair shyly. “Thanks.”

~

When she got home from school that day, Buffy found two gift certificates for a nearby salon and spa- all-inclusive- sitting on the couch in her living room. Her fingers fumbled as she rushed to open his note.

“Every thing carries me to you, as if everything that exists,  
aromas, lights, metals,  
were little boats that sail towards those isles of yours that wait for me.”  
Moving our date up to tomorrow night. Spend the day at the spa with Red, I’ll pick you up at 9.  
-W  
P.S. Before you get your knickers in a twist, I already cleared the day off with your mum and got her to push your curfew back.

Buffy’s excitement died down quickly when she realized the date hadn’t even started and she was already going to have to admit he was halfway decent at being romantic. I mean, those poems?! Did he actually see her that way? 

She tried to tell herself that there was no way he was finding things specifically for her- after all, he hated her, right?

But they’d worked well together during the Acathala thing, and he’d always seemed to just sort of... get her. Still, he was the Big Bad and in love with another woman, there was no way he would ever go after her.

Buffy sighed. ‘Well,’ she thought, ‘at least if there’s no chance on his end, then there’s nothing wrong with me letting myself play along and enjoy the attention.’

~

When the doorbell rang Saturday night, a happily pampered Buffy pulled open the door and had to quickly catch her jaw as it fell open.

Spike looked... damn fine. 

His blonde hair was slightly mussed and curly, and he’d skipped out on the cosmetics. He wore a sapphire blue shirt with vaguely-dressy black jeans and boots. And in his right hand he held a bouquet of bright wildflowers.

Once she’d come to her senses with the ogling, she noticed how he looked at her. He held out the bouquet to her, but he was looking at her with his head slightly tilted and a strange, sweet expression on his face. She blushed and quickly grabbed the flowers and scurried into the kitchen, eager to have a minute to shake off the intensity of his gaze.

~

She was a goddess. A goddamn golden goddess, glowing in her strapless floral dress.

When he’d held the flowers out for her a moment ago, he’d been struck by the thought that they didn’t look nearly as beautiful when put up against Buffy Summers.

She could outshine the sun.

He knew then that he could no longer pretend the point of winning was for winning’s sake alone. He couldn’t pretend that all the revelations he’d had over the last few days hadn’t happened. 

No, he knew what he wanted, now.

He wanted to win because he wanted to date Buffy. 

When she re-entered the room, he quickly shook off the realization and held his arm out to guide her to the car. 

“Shall we?”

She simply smiled a little and accepted his arm, following his lead. He opened the car door for her, and after he’d made it around to his own side she finally spoke up.

“So, what’s your big romance plan?”

“You’ll have to wait and find out, pet,” he answered, his voice amused.

“Oh, come on! What is it? Mariachi band? Private flight to Europe? Torture? What’s your plan to woo the slayer?” 

He words has slightly less ice to them than they would have before, which boded well for the success of his notes and presents.

“All wrong. Patience, Buffy, you’ll find out soon.” 

He’d used her name purposely, keeping his voice low and deep. He was rewarded with a barely-noticeable shiver running down her body. Hm, seemed like someone wasn’t so averse to the Big Bad as she might have let on.

“Fine.” Her response was harder, and she looked pointedly through the windshield.

Hopefully his choice of venue would be enough to warm the icy exterior she’d somehow managed to put up in seconds. Luckily, it only took them a few minutes of semi-awkward silence to pull into view of the marina.

He pointed ahead of them. 

“That’s our plans for tonight.”

“A boat?” 

She tried to make it sound as if she found the idea unappealing, but she was begrudgingly impressed.

“Dinner and dancing over the moonlit ocean.” 

He pulled to a stop and rushed around to open her door for her and help her out. 

“You ready?”

She took a deep breath, trying to calm the anxiety that had flooded her chest. This was really happening. She’d made the bet with Spike, she was going to lose, and this was threatening to be the best date she’d ever have.

And it was with her mortal enemy. Ish.

Part of the anxiety was over the fact that a good chunk of her feelings were good old fashioned butterflies in her stomach. She wasn’t scared, she was excited. 

There was no denying Spike was hot, and he knew how to charm a girl, if what she’d seen so far was any indication. She so badly wanted to pretend that she could just be a normal girl, who got super lucky and got to date a gorgeous and thoughtful guy.

As they made their way up the ramp, Buffy took in the boat. Everything seemed luxurious, and when they reached the top of the stairs to the deck of the ship, she gasped.

The whole area was decked out with soft twinkling lights, and flowers were everywhere. There was a small table with short centerpiece, nothing that would prevent conversation. The candles added to the atmosphere, and Buffy was incredibly impressed.

He held her chair out for her before sitting down, smiling up at her as she picked up a menu.

“Get whatever you’d like, love.”

His voice was warm, and she once again shivered unintentionally. Then she flushed and ordered as quickly as possible, hoping he hadn’t noticed her reaction.

If he had, he didn’t mention it. Buffy sent up a silent thanks to the gods of humiliation. The easiest way to wreck this date would be if he poked fun at her for enjoying it. She couldn’t bring herself to care about winning the bet right then, when this fantasy was so nice. As long as he stayed all gentleman-like she could keep up her mini-delusion that the date was for real. 

When Spike ordered a bottle of fancy wine, Buffy couldn’t help raising her eyebrows. 

“You’re going to drink a bottle of wine by yourself?”

“I thought you might like some. You’re 18 after all, and it’s maritime rules out here.”

He nearly chuckled when she perked up. “Really?”

“Yeah, pet.” To be honest he wasn’t entirely sure, but a glass of wine wasn’t going to hurt her, he knew that much.

When the waiter presented him with the wine, he slid a tip into the man’s hand and quickly uncorked the bottle. He poured them each a generous glass and raised his.

“To gambling,” he toasted with a smirk.

“To gambling.” Buffy took a drink and gasped. “This is incredible! What, is part of your romantic plan to get me drunk?”

“’O course not. Think I’m eager to go another round with your mum and a fire axe? Won’t go letting you get hammered and ruin our date anyways.”

“Okay, if you’re so concerned about our date, Mr. Romantic, talk to me about something.”

Suddenly the charm ratcheted back up. “What do you want to talk about, sweet?” He reached across the table and grabbed her hand. For some reason she squeezed it lightly before she pulled away.

“Nuh uh, Mr. Romance-Guy. It’s your job to come up with a topic.” She sat back in her chair and crossed her legs and arms, challenging him.

He considered her for a moment with pursed lips before leaning back and mirroring her stance. 

“Tell me about your dreams. What does Buffy Summers want to do with her life?”

Her expression wasn’t what he’d expected. She smiled without humor or joy. 

“Survive,” she replied, with a wry laugh.

Spike sighed. “Yeh, you got dealt a sodding awful hand, love. But you can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it before. Tell me about the dream and the practical plan.”

She sighed and relaxed a little. 

“The dream changes. Sometimes I’ve had time to study so I’m smart and I’m gonna go to school to be a vet. Sometimes I’m planning on taking a year off to travel... anywhere. Everywhere. 

“Sometimes I’m just me, but I go with my Northwestern acceptance and no one knows anything about me, and it’s not a hellmouth so I don’t really have to slay or avert apocalypses, so most of the time I get to just be a student- but I’m still me. 

“The practical plan? I’m going to UC Sunnydale undeclared so I can still guard the hellmouth. If I manage to stop the Mayor from ending the world, that is.”

“The Mayor of Sunnydale wants to end the world?” He raised his eyebrows at her.

“Nothing new for the hellmouth. He’s trying to become a pure demon and unleash hell on earth, yada yada.” 

Her sigh was aggravated and bitter. He hummed thoughtfully, knowing he needed to change the topic to avoid ruining the date with shop talk. 

“Is it good, love?” he questioned as she took her first bite of the newly arrived food.

Her only response was a loud, “Mmm!”

He chuckled. 

“So, tell me something, Slayer. Why a vet?”

“Huh?” She mumbled through a mouth full of food, and he held back another laugh.

“Your first dream. Why be a vet?”

She looked thoughtful for a minute as she chewed, considering. “I... honestly don’t know. I guess because animals are cute. And it’s a job that requires being smart but isn’t so boring.”

“Being a slayer requires being smart.” He gestured at her with his fork.

“It takes luck. And brute force. I’ve got backup for the smarts, really.”

“You got into Northwestern, Buffy. I may have been off the collegiate track almost by the time it was founded, but I do know they’re a good school and don’t just let anyone in. Plus, you’ve survived, what, 3 years as the slayer? Don’t tell me you’re not smart, ‘cause I’m not buying.”

“Thanks, I guess,” she said awkwardly.

He could tell she didn’t believe him, so she tried again. 

“There are things more important than school- you should know that better than anyone. Being good at school doesn’t mean you’re intelligent, and being intelligent doesn’t mean you’ll be good at school. I’ve watched you fight, Slayer. You’re resourceful, quick on your feet. You’ve got the whole package- don’t let some tweed-y academic pee-ons tell you that you don’t.”

This time she blushed. Got her. 

“You mean that?”

“I do. Not just because you beat me a dozen times before we teamed up.”

They chuckled, and the atmosphere relaxed.

“I was serious about this being great food. Does the boat come with a chef or something?”

He smiled at her.

“It’s a restaurant, most of the time. I rented the place out and had them clear the space so we’d have room to dance later.”

Surprised, she questioned, “You dance?”

“We’ve been dancing since we first met, and you’re surprised?”

Her gaze was far away as she mused over the meaning of his words. She was slightly startled to realize he wasn’t wrong. 

“Guess I shouldn’t have been.”

From that first fight in the school, they’d been circling each other, dancing around with an ease of back and forth that she hadn’t even noticed. Somehow, she and Spike just knew how to play off each other. They were matched in both wits and strength (well, nearly, at least. Her slayer pride refused to believe she couldn’t take him if she absolutely had to). 

And now here she was with him. On a date. A date that was going far, far too well for her to have any hopes of winning the bet now. He’d been a gentleman, and that insight he used to see right through her went a long way in making him an ideal conversation partner. Not to mention the romance of the setting and food.

Idly, she wondered if she hadn’t been able to kill him because this dance was meant to be so much more than just a fight.

Finally, Spike had had enough of the quiet and decided to break her reverie. “Nostalgic, innit, me movin’ the date up to tonight?”

Buffy just crinkled her nose in confusion.

“I was gonna kill you on a Saturday.” 

The comment was a risk, but things had been going well so far. He hoped she would be able to keep her good humor and joke with him.

His relief was palpable when her light tone didn’t match her harsh words. “Except then you came after me on Thursday because you’re so impatient that you couldn’t wait.”

He joined her in feigned outrage. “Oi! It’s your own fault for being so bloody beautiful and enticing.”

Buffy froze for a second. “Bullshit.”

“Is not.”

He sighed, and decided to be honest. 

“You’re incredible, love. Somethin’ about your style called to me. And I decided I wasn’t going to use some sodding mystical advantage. Wouldn’ be fair to you.”

Buffy looked across at him, eyebrows raised. “Really?”

“Really. Always had something of an honor code, but it was pretty shady. Think there was a part of me that recognized I’d met my match with you.”

Her only response was a soft “oh,” as she ducked her head to hide her blush.

Could he read her mind? That was the only explanation. It had to be. There was no way she was this in-sync with a soulless vampire. With SPIKE.

Instead of dwelling on it, she shoved the last of her food into her mouth and took a sip of wine. She rested her elbows on the table and cupped her head in her hands, challenging him teasingly. “So, what’s for dessert?”

In lieu of an answer, he gestured for the waiter that had been keeping an eye out from the kitchen door. He cleared their plates and the centerpiece to make room for the dish another waiter set between them.

On it was a delicious looking chocolate cake, covered in chocolate shavings and cherries. There was ice cream scooped on either side, one for her and one for him. Two spoons rested on the plate.

“Oh wow.” Her eyes were huge and her mouth began to water.

“Dig in love, while it’s still warm. It’s a lava cake.” 

He picked up his fork and took a bite from his side, trying not to make it obvious that he was watching her.

“Oh GOD!” 

Buffy’s moan was almost orgasmic. He’d known the cake was good, but hearing the noises she made as she savored it automatically moved it to the rank of ‘Best Godddamn Cake Ever.’

“Good, huh?” He chuckled, eyes sparkling. 

Thank god for tables that hide tight pants.

Buffy’s eyes rolled up in her head as she responded, “Mmm, yeah, so good! Might be the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

He noticed her blush and look away quickly, but decided to let it slide. He wasn’t about to push more when the date was going so well.

It was quiet as they ate, except for Buffy’s vocalizations of bliss. But then, Buffy got bold.

Her spoon reached towards the center of the plate.

To the edge of her side.

And on to his side.

And quickly she’d scooped up some of his half of the cake and shoved it in her mouth.

“Oi! The point of splitting is half and half, woman!”

Buffy giggled. “Aw, c’mon, Spikey! Be a good date and let me steal your food.”

“Don’t think so.” He grumbled and proceeded to sneak his arm across and steal a bite from her half.

When she decided to go back after his side, he blocked her with his spoon. They struggled for a minute, both trying to guard their own halves and attack for pieces of the other. When both spoons slipped and flew across the room, the laughter they’d shared stopped dead.

“Oops.” Buffy commented with a blush.

“Think it’s time we call another truce, Slayer.”

He stood and held his hand out to her. She accepted it and stood up next to him.

“The truce of the Great Cake War of 99,” she laughed as he pulled her to a clear expanse of floor.

When they reached the center of the clear space, he held her upper arms in his hands and held her still. “Wait right here, I’ll get the music.”

It wasn’t what Buffy expected of him, honestly. The speakers began to play something soft and jazzy, perfect for slow dancing.

She didn’t resist when he returned and pulled her into the circle of his arms. Suddenly, they were dancing, and Buffy couldn’t tell who was leading or if they were even doing anything more than standing.

Her eyes were stuck on the man in front of her. She wasn’t blind, she knew he was attractive. Hell, she’d wanted to cry when she realized he was going to be an enemy and not a friend. But for some reason, tonight, here on this boat, with her, something was different about him. He was softer, his eyes searching hers earnestly. He looked almost happy, which was insane when he had been drunks for weeks or months over losing Drusilla.

Looking in his eyes made her think, and she wasn’t up for that. She just wanted to get lost in the moment and pretend he really wanted to be there with her. That this wasn’t a bet, that he wouldn’t go back to being her enemy as soon as he won, that maybe she could be a real girl pursuing a real relationship with talking and butterflies and connecting. So instead she rested her head on his shoulder and allowed him to pull her closer.

When the song was over, she pulled away, pretending to be preoccupied with the view off the side of the boat. “It’s so pretty out.”

He led her over to the railing. “Not as pretty as you, kitten.”

Suddenly, the idea of continuing playing along became much more terrifying.

She pulled him down to sit with her feet hanging off the side, pretending she could dip her toes in the water. Buffy leaned over onto her date, deciding to push him. If this didn’t set him off, she wasn’t sure what she would do. Reminding herself that he was acting just kept getting harder. 

“Tell me about yourself. For real.”

He attempted to seem calm, but she felt him tense underneath her. “What do you mean?”

“Well, my mom mentioned something about you being a Victorian poet.” She smiled up at him impishly.

“Christ, I talk too much when I’m drunk.” 

He sighed heavily, giving in. He could have fought with her, but he was so close to winning, and the part of him that usually screamed at him to hide his past close to his chest was suspiciously silent when it came to Buffy. 

Plus, she looked cute as hell with that smile, and her warm head against his shoulder was more intoxicating than a bottle of Jack. 

“Yeah, I was a real ponce as a human. Came from a wealthy family, momma’s boy, Oxford educated. Didn’t care about anything but literature and dreaming of the day I’d find someone to be my wife.”

He waited for her laughter, but none came. When he finally chanced a glance down at her, he froze. She was looking out over the water with a thoughtful expression. His response had been anything but what she expected. 

“That sounds sweet. Tell me more about your family?”

He continued to stare at her, dumbstruck, for a moment, but quickly recovered. “Oh, yeh. Um. Was an only child. My father died when I was little, so it was just me and mum my whole life. She was sick for a long time so I took care of her. We had servants, too, that were somewhat like family. There were a few that worked for us when I was born and were still with us when I-” he cut himself off quickly.

Buffy didn’t respond, she was too busy biting her lip. She knew what he had planned to say- they were still working for his family when he was turned.

Beside her, Spike had gone still. He knew what she was thinking about, and it was all he could do to hold back the anger in his voice. “Go on, ask what you want to ask.”

She didn’t bother pretending not to know what he meant. 

“Did you go after any of them? Once you’d been turned?”

He looked her dead in the eye. “No. Killed some blokes who’d liked to bully me around, but anyone I was close to was safe.” 

The pain in his eyes was a dead giveaway that he wasn’t being entirely truthful. Buffy sighed and looked away for a moment, coming to a decision. He was trying to use his attitude as a front, but she knew there was more going on underneath if she didn’t fall for the lie.

She squeezed his arm softly. 

“You can tell me, you know. Clearly, you’re hurting over whatever happened, I’m not going to judge you.”

He sighed. Might as well take advantage of that absent ‘never speak of this again’ warning in his brain and let someone in. Maybe it’d be worth the inevitable kicking down later. 

“I mentioned mum had consumption, right? Well I woke up after Dru turned me and I felt alive for the first time. I felt strong and confident and I didn’t give a damn what the world thought of me anymore. So, I went to visit her, and she was so much worse- I'd been missing for days and she was worrying to death. And so, I thought... but I was wrong. She wasn’t strong enough, the demon had complete control when she woke. She said... god, horrible things. So, I killed my mum for the second time.”

“Oh, god, Spike.” She grabbed his hands and shifted to face him more. “I’m so, so sorry. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like.”

He refused to meet her eyes. He might not care what the world thought was wrong or right, but he knew where his own lines lay. 

“I was disgusting, Buffy. I became a monster and I made her one too.”

“Listen, Spike.” She leaned down, trying to catch his gaze. “If it had been me? If it was my mom, and I thought I could do something to save her? I would do it too. You’ve done some fucked up stuff, I’m sure, but this isn’t one of them.”

His head shot up and he met her eyes. “Why are you being nice to me, Slayer?” 

His voice was colder now, but she could once again see his anger for what it was- a defense mechanism.

She sighed heavily, gazing back out over the water. It was time to be honest, even if that meant letting go of the fantasy, and watching their relationship go back to the usual hostility.

“Because... because I’ve had a good time tonight. Because you’re somehow the sweetest man I’ve ever met and you don’t even have a soul. And I know that all of those poems and things were just generic and there’s no way this isn’t just an act, but... no one acts this well. You don’t mean it for me, but you can mean it for someone. It shows you’re capable of it. 

“And normally I’d say that you only know the surface stuff and can’t do commitment, but I’ve had how untrue that is shoved in my face from day one. You don’t even need the truth spell- I’ll tell you right now that you won the bet. You’re an A+ romantic and I would totally go on a second date with you if this were real.”

Spike was somewhere between stunned and affronted. 

“Buffy, this isn’t an act. Yeah, I probably could do the whole seduce-and-swoon routine with anyone, but with you it wasn’t a routine. Each and every verse I sent you has run through my head at one point or another while thinking of you.”

When Buffy’s head shot up to meet his eyes, everything became a shade too real, and her eyes flew back to the horizon instead. Buffy had given in and gotten swept up because she thought there was no way he actually wanted her, no matter how badly she wanted him. 

But if he did... that meant reality. That meant a future beyond tonight. Which, hey, sounded like bliss in theory, but she had to remember that there was life outside this boat in reality. 

She struggled for what to say, grateful that if he was laughing at her gasping fish impression, she couldn’t see it.

She finally settled on, “What does that mean?”

“I guess it means... maybe it’s time for a change.” 

He looked at her earnestly. She’d been honest with him. Transparent. It broke through the hard shell of his disbelief and toppled his walls down. 

“No one’s ever cared for me, Buffy. My mum had to, but other than that I’ve just been... convenient. If you look at tonight and you like me- if there’s some set of circumstances that would allow you to see where this goes- I'd go to the ends of the earth to make it happen.”

Her laugh was strangled. “So, what, I just say ‘stop eating people and being evil and help me slay’ and you’ll just be game?” 

She’d meant to sound sarcastic, but even she could hear the terror in her voice. What the hell was happening right now?

“Pretty much. Soon as I realized I had feelings for you I figured I’d have to be bagging it and off the evil train for you to give me a shot.”

She started off indignant. “And that! What happens if we break up, you just go back to slaughtering people?” Her tone shifted to something softer, more desperate. “I don’t want to have to kill another ex, Spike.”

He sighed gently, pulling her closer to him again. “Can’t promise I wouldn’t go back to human blood, but I’d go far away and stick to catch-and-release while you’re alive. I wouldn’t ever want to put you through that again, Buffy. Nothin’ you could do to me to make me think you deserve that.”

Her voice was unsteady now, wavering. “W-what about when I die, then? If we’re still together?”

“Buffy, if you decide I’m worth having the honor of standing by you for the rest of your life, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. That’s who I am. I understand that you choosing to be with me, not just use me, is something precious. Wouldn’t tarnish that experience by becoming something you’d hate again.”

Their eyes met, and he noted the tears flowing freely down her face. 

“This is insane, you know that, Spike?”

He reached out and cupped her cheek. 

“What is, love?”

“Us. Dating. We both just got out of big relationships and suddenly we’re, what? Perfect for each other?”

He smiled softly at her. “I don’t think it’s insane to want to find out.”

“It is when you don’t have a soul. You’re not supposed to be able to feel this way. It’s all supposed to be fake, and an act, and... and...” she choked back a sob, “And what’s wrong with me that he couldn’t give a crap about me without a soul but you somehow do?”

Within moments she was completely wrapped in his arms, listening to him shush her and press kisses into her hair. 

“No, love, no. There’s nothing wrong with you. That wanker’s the one with an issue. You’re incredible, princess, and that’s what Angelus does. He tries to break incredible things. 

“He didn’t get you though, I promise. He gave you a few cracks, but you’re still whole. Mending those cracks reinforces the structure, see? Makes it even harder to shatter you. You’re stronger for going through all this, Buffy. It’s cruel and unfair and... it’s not you. Not your fault. I swear. Shh.”

He held her tightly as she sobbed. When she finally calmed down, she choked out a ‘sorry’ as she pulled away.

“Don’t be sorry, Buffy.” 

He held on tight, not letting her move very far away.

Her laugh was harsh. “I basically just ruined our date with my waterworks, of course I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” He leaned down and caught her eye. “Point of a date is to make a connection, right?”

“Sure, whatever,” she agreed, but huffed and rolled her eyes.

“Well I think we did a damn good job of that tonight. If we’re going to take this somewhere, I’d rather start off on a foundation of opening up to each other than one where we make small talk and hide our feelings.”

She glanced up at him. “Stop being so smart,” she pouted. 

He laughed and pulled her back into his embrace. “No can do, love.”

“Shut up Spike!” 

He could hear the smile in her voice.

He pulled back again and looked at her. “I won the bet, you say?”

The smile dropped off her face in an instant. He understood—she was still weary, but she’d come around. He’d prove his trustworthiness. 

Her guarded tone matched her expression when she answered. “Yeah?”

“I’ve decided what I want from you.” He couldn’t resist teasing her just a little with his evil smile. He might be off the active-evil train, but he was still the Big Bad.

“What.” 

Her face fell and she sounded defeated underneath her hardened tone. Fuck. Better hope this pays off.

“A second date.”

Her jaw dropped and she slapped him on the arm. “What the hell?! Why did you have that expression if you just wanted a date?”

“What expression?” He asked innocently.

“Like you’re a cat that just ate a canary.”

“Buffy, love, you don’t seem to be grasping that for me, a second date with you IS like the cat getting the canary.”

Her eyes were big as she blinked up at him through her lashes. “I’m a canary?”

“Sweetheart, you’re the biggest, juiciest, fluffiest... balls, I dunno, whatever it is cats like about birds, you’ve got it.”

She finally burst out into laughter, resting her head in the crook of his neck. “Okay, if you say so.”

His response was just a growl, but it was playful. 

As she rested against him, looking out at the docks as they approached, she felt content in a way she hadn’t in a long time. Things felt good- it would take some doing, but the Scoobies would learn to trust him. He’d already helped once, after all. She was going to take one last shot at following her gut, but instead of feeling terrified she felt... hopeful. 

The boat began to pull into the harbor and Spike broke the spell, standing up and holding out a hand to help her.

“I don’t want the night to be over,” she pouted as they made their way down the stairs towards the ramp.

“Promised your mum I’d have you home before curfew. Remember what I said earlier about not fancyin’ going another round with that axe?”

She hung on his arm, teasing him. “Aww, is the Big Bad scared of my mother?”

“I’ll have you know, Slayer, that I’ve fought plenty of beasts in my time, and your mother is a respectable warrior.”

“Yes, I hear she’s been known to wreak havoc with a vacuum,” she snarked back with an eye roll.

They continued to tease each other the whole way back to her house, laughing and enjoying each other’s company. 

Somehow, neither of them had realized before that verbal sparring is far more fun when you’re not trying to hurt each other.

Finally, they approached the house, stopping by the front door. He grabbed her and kissed her languorously as they held each other on the porch. Buffy melted into him as if there was no one else in the world, and Spike was entranced. He wasn’t sure who ran the cosmic order, but he was pretty sure someone needed to be fired- somehow a vampire had wound up in heaven. Even when she pulled away with one last soft kiss goodbye, his head was floating. The whole walk back to his motel, all Spike could think was, “I have a second date to plan.”


	6. The Unexpected Consequences of Dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Buffy learns some helpful life lessons...
> 
> With thanks to my offline beta ‘F’ - bless her cotton socks for sanity checking this for me and to yellowb for letting me loose in the EC again. 
> 
> I must also give a grateful nod to many of my favourite Spuffy dating fics which I would mention by name if I could find them in my ridiculously long favourites list… 
> 
> This starter paragraph made me pull out my hair as I don't do fluffy, so don't be too disappointed! Usual disclaimer - I'm just playing in the Buffy sandbox.

Finally, they approached the house, stopping by the front door. He grabbed her and kissed her languorously as they held each other on the porch.  Buffy melted into him as if there was no one else in the world, and Spike was entranced. He wasn’t sure who ran the cosmic order, but he was pretty sure someone needed to be fired- somehow a vampire had wound up in heaven. Even when she pulled away with one last soft kiss goodbye, his head was floating.  The whole walk back to his motel, all Spike could think was, “I have a second date to plan.”

As soon as he was out of sight, Buffy raced up to the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. She turned on the tap, splashed her face and swilled out her mouth. How the heck had Giles persuaded her to do this?  Taking advantage of Spike’s isolation after his dumping by Dru was an easy get in, but it didn’t mean she had to be comfortable with it. Spike was a vampire. By definition he was evil. She’d already had one of them say he loved her then mess with her head for months. There was no way anyone in their right mind could possibly think that this game she was playing was real – anyone that is except Spike, who persisted in believing that she could find him attractive. She dried her face, trudged to the phone at the end of the hall, slid down the wall and called Giles.

“I can’t do this Giles!” she moaned, “Kissing him made me feel physically sick.” She continued, “There’s no way I can pretend to be into him. How do I explain it to Xan and Willow? They hate Spike and they'll never buy it. And I can’t let them know it’s all fake because they’re bound to let it slip to Mom and she’ll give me grief for leading him on because for some reason she's missed out on the whole ‘Spike is evil’ memo and thinks he’s a fluffy puppy…” She paused to take a breath.

“Buffy - stop.” interjected Giles, thinking to himself that she was protesting more than was absolutely necessary given that he'd not in fact asked her to go as far as kissing. “We’ve already gone over this, rehashing it yet again is not going to change the facts. I’ve given you as much information as I’m able at this time. We need Spike, ideally on a short leash. If he thinks you're interested, he’ll do anything you ask.”

Buffy grumped, “Fine Giles, I’ll play along, but I’d better not have to do more than kiss him. I really don’t have the stomach for it.” She hung up and sat with her head in her hands.  It was no use, she was just going to have to suck it up until the objective was accomplished, whatever that was. Giles was playing his cards close to his chest again. It made her uncomfortable – it felt like a return to the bad old days when the Council held sway – and despite her constant avowal that she loathed Spike, she couldn’t help feeling that for once it was her and Giles behaving in a morally grey way rather than the so-called monster. She dragged herself back to her dorm and readied herself for what she knew would be a sleepless night.

Spike had no clue as to the mental melodrama currently underway in Buffy's college halls, he was too busy considering how best to woo Buffy by impressing her on their second date. How the hell was he going to go about it?  He knew he was attracted to her power and her spirit, but even he had to admit that he barely knew her beyond a superficial level. “Not as if I can just take her to the Bronze” he thought to himself, “Definitely not going to win any prizes making her eat humble pie in front of the Scoobies. And I’m not going down Angelus's route – bloody ponce meeting her at a damned ice rink in the middle of the bloody night. I need something that'll help her see me as a real person. Show her I'm not just a monster.” He threw himself down on his bed “Bollocks. How in hell am I ever going to prove to her that I’m date material? I’ll just have to sleep on it and try to get the lowdown from Joyce tomorrow.” By the time he drifted to sleep, he had come up with a few potential options to chat through. One of them was bound to cut the mustard…

The following morning, Buffy got up early and called home. “Mom, I need to tell you something…”

Joyce sighed and waited, she knew better than to jump to any conclusions these days when it came to her daughter's pronouncements. This kind of confession could mean anything from boy trouble to an apocalypse.

“So… Spike is taking me out for a date on Friday.” Buffy blurted, then paused and waited for an outpouring of judgement.

Joyce stayed silent. She had no idea how this had come about given that last she heard Spike was harassing that good for nothing Angel (she had to admit that she wholeheartedly approved of that activity) and she was not entirely sure she wanted to know the details. Finally, she spoke. “That's a bit unexpected, Buffy. Are you sure you can trust him? I mean you know I quite like him - he's surprisingly cultured and obviously capable of long term commitment - but he's not exactly husband material is he? No grand babies…” Joyce tailed off.

“Cart before the horse, Mom! I'm going out on a date, not marrying him. Anyway, he's promised me and Giles not to kill anybody while he's in town, and he's kinda useful in a fight.  I just wanted you to know so it's not a surprise if he turns up asking for advice.”

“Oh. Ok. At least this time you're not pretending to be in a band.” Joyce couldn't resist a little dig, “Are you still hell on the old drums?”

“Ha ha, Mom. You think you are so funny!” Buffy hung up and went for breakfast with Willow. She carefully avoided mentioning the Spike kissage and forthcoming date.

 

Spike spent most of the day asleep in his seedy motel room. He finally stirred mid afternoon and meandered his way through the sewers, before making his final blanket covered smoky dash to the front door at Revello.

“Joyce! Any chance of hot chocolate? I'm on a peace mission.”

Joyce waved him into the kitchen. “Buffy already told me you're taking her out on a date, Spike. Remember I have an axe in the basement and I'm not afraid to use it.”

Spike grinned sheepishly and shook his head. “Nah, not looking to cause trouble. Just want a chance to show her I'm a proper catch. Can I run some date ideas past you? I don't want to screw this up straight out of the gate.”

Joyce passed him his mug and sat next to him against the breakfast bar, “I'm all yours.”

“So, I was thinking it can't be too out there as Buffy seems quite conventional, so taking her to one of the more outré demon clubs is probably out. Although I think she'd enjoy letting loose on the dancefloor…”

Joyce nodded. She could see his reasoning on that option. “Don't want to emphasise what you are - that's sensible.”

“Exactly. Then I thought about doing something a bit more romantic and for a moonlight picnic and stargazing but that's probably a step too far the other way.”

“Buffy would say that's the kind of date she'd like, but probably not with you.”

Spike gave a wry smile, “Yeah, I don't really have the clean cut image to go with that do I?”

“Not so much. But you have your own unique appeal, Spike. So what were you thinking?” Joyce asked.

“There's a cute diner on the road south towards L.A.. They have live bands and decent unfussy food and there's little chance she'll be seen with me which I reckon she'll appreciate. I don't know why she's suddenly shown an interest, so I'm making the most of it while it lasts, but I don't want to cause trouble so figured discreet was best all round. Could I pick Buffy up from here so I'm not seen around campus again?”

Joyce gave him a shrewd look. “Sure. Most of her date worthy shoes are still in the closet here anyway. I think it sounds like a good plan, Spike. Not too challenging, not too cheesy. It's the small bear's porridge of Buffy dates. More hot chocolate? I've just baked cookies and I've had a shipment into the gallery you might find interesting…”

 

Buffy had a pretty crappy week at college, despite getting a darn good grade in the assignment she got back for her favourite poetry class. Willow was trying to hook her up with some jock who reminded her of a less broody Angel and even Buffy had the wit to realise that bouncing into that was not a good move. In fact, she considered that Willow’s track record for relationship advice was way weak. Perhaps it was time try something different. She kept going for nice guys who weren't in fact nice at all. Maybe it was time for turn about. She could hold her nose and enjoy this game with Spike, have her fun and be the one to walk away and cause heartbreak for a change. She mused that in hindsight the kiss had actually been rather more swoonsome than she'd initially wanted to admit. Sure he was evil but he did have that whole bad boy vibe going on and that retro punk look was pretty hot. Plus he was definitely going to go all out to impress now she'd let him get his toe in the door. Yup, she'd get some fun dates out of him, a few hot kisses and then whatever the hoohah that Giles was wittering about would take him out and she'd not have to deal with the repercussions. She suddenly felt much more cheerful.

 

Friday night came around and Spike pulled up outside Revello in his black behemoth. Buffy shot out the front door and threw herself in before he could even turn off the engine. 

“Spike, Giles just called to tell me there's some drama in the cemetery on the way out of town. Can we stop on the way to deal with it before our date? I've done my main patrol but apparently this thing didn't get the memo. Ok?”

Never one to shirk off a fight, Spike was not bothered by a bit of a detour. Also he did love watching her kick demon ass. He'd spent so much time watching videos of her fight in the earlier incarnation of his Buffy obsession that getting a ringside seat was not something he was about to turn down…

The demon was quite possibly the ugliest thing either of them had ever seen, like some giant mutated slug covered in a gloopy slime that seemed to resist stake penetration. “So what's this one?” Buffy yelled at him as she danced around it, desperately trying to find a weak spot as it engulfed another gravestone. “And some help would be nice!”

Spike was too busy enjoying the show, “No idea!” he shouted down as he adjusted the crotch of his jeans. “This one's a bit of a puzzler.  Don't suppose you've got any salt?”

Buffy snarled in his direction and Spike got the distinct impression that his second date was only going to happen if he got his hands dirty. He vaulted down from the crypt which had provided an excellent view of the action and flicked his cigarette butt at the creature. It immediately lit up like a firework, fizzing like a sparkler from tail to head before exploding in a cloud of smoke.

Buffy was hidden from view, and as the smoke drifted away Spike saw her body on the ground. 

“Well shit!” Panicking, he crashed to his knees next to her and felt her neck for a pulse. He sighed with relief. She was just unconscious - that he could deal with. He scooped her up and turned towards the car, but before he took a single step she twisted in his arms like a cat and launched herself away from him. She crouched, eyeing him suspiciously before slinking back towards him. Running her nose up his chest and into the crook of his shoulder, she nuzzled gently then leaped away and dodged around the back of the crypt, peeking out from behind it like a nervous critter.

“Buffy. It's just me,” he crooned, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. “You know, good ole Spike. Nothing scary. Helped save the world for Man U, and dog racing…” Spike started to move towards her. She tipped her head on one side then darted away through the gravestones. “So I've got to catch you now?” Buffy didn't respond, she was already fifty yards away.

He stalked her through the rows of headstones, but every time he got close she skipped away. He knew he should be annoyed to be missing out on the carefully plotted date, but she was leading him on a merry dance, and looked adorable prancing away. He wondered what was going through her head. She was clearly flirting with him - if she'd really wanted to get away she could easily outpace him, but instead she was luring him in a wide circle. He finally reached where they'd left the DeSoto to find Buffy lounging on the roof like a cat. 

“Well hello there Slayer,” he purred, “Are you done with your game?”

She gave him a cheeky grin and with a languorous stretch, rolled over and wrapped her arms around his neck before slithering off the roof and wrapping her legs around his waist.

“Um, Buffy? I'm not knocking this but even I can tell that you'll probably kill me tomorrow when you come to your senses if I take advantage. And I rather like existing if you don't mind.”

Buffy didn't respond except to bury her nose in his neck. She took a good sniff then licked up his jaw to his ear. “No, Slayer.” He took hold of her shoulders and pushed her upper body away from him, giving her a stern look of rebuke and wondering how in the world he'd ended up being the one with the conscience this evening. She growled at him and shifted her arms so they curled up under his shoulders, snuggled into his chest and gave a little huff.

“Huh, I seem to have acquired a pet.” said Spike to himself on the basis that he'd not get any response from the non-verbal Buffy. “Well I can't drop you back in this state so I guess you'll have to come with me.” Buffy gave another huff in response. “I'll take that as a yes then.” Spike attempted to peel Buffy off his torso so he could put her into the car, but she was more persistent than a limpet and wrowled with increasing ire with every try. In the end he managed to wedge himself behind the wheel with Buffy on his lap. It wasn't entirely comfortable and it made steering kinda tricky but there was no way he was willing to walk across Sunnydale with an incapacitated Slayer attached to his midriff.

Having safely arrived at his motel, Spike manoeuvred them out of the car and into his room. “Now what?”

He tried to detach her again but she continued to cling like an angry baby monkey and in the end he gave up and kicked off his boots, pulled the comforter aside and sat down on the bed. After some contortion and a degree of wriggling which made for a very uncomfortable few minutes before he managed to get his erection to subside by thinking about how much he hated Angel, he managed to remove Buffy's footwear, lay back and covered them both, with her still cuddling his chest. He drifted to sleep convinced that he'd wake up dust or, if he was very hopeful, alone, once Buffy came to her senses and stormed off with her virtue aflutter.

Buffy on the other hand was currently having an epiphany. Or at least the little bit of rational Buffy that was very definitely not in charge right now was having an epiphany. She had just watched with increasing disbelief as Spike had spurned her not so rational self’s rather unsubtle advances and tried to do what he clearly thought was the ‘right thing to do’. He really was one weird vamp… but she now had to admit something she'd never willingly acknowledged before. If he could control himself and make conscious ethical choices when it suited him, then that meant that Angel could too and chose not to. And if that were true, then Angel had never truly loved her. And if he'd never truly loved her then it was time to let both him and the hurt he'd caused go once and for all. Buffy fell asleep with a light and hopeful heart, feeling safe in the arms of someone utterly unexpected.

As Spike rolled over and stretched with a yawn, he was rather startled to find a warm body in his bed. The Slayer was curled up next to him, snuggled under the comforter. Smiling to himself, he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her back into his chest, thinking that this was definitely not what he'd had planned for their second date.


	7. Spilled Secrets of the Russian Judge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to Holi117 for her beta assistance, suggestions, and letting me vent out my initial panic when I got my prompt. Any mistakes are mine because of all the last-minute fiddling. 
> 
> The marvel of a banner is by OffYourBird! 
> 
> This is the first time I've participated in anything like this and it was both terrifying and amazingly fun!! Thanks so much to yellowb for organizing this craziness and thenewbuzwuzz for overseeing this crosspost! -Passion4Spike

 

As Spike rolled over and stretched with a yawn, he was rather startled to find a warm body in his bed. The Slayer was curled up next to him, snuggled under the comforter. Smiling to himself, he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her back into his chest, thinking that this was definitely not what he'd had planned for their second date.

Buffy sighed out a yawn of her own as she arched her back in a feline stretch, pressing certain of her parts against certain of his parts in a most enticing way. In the next moment her eyes flew open wide as the unfamiliar room and unfamiliar body behind her came into dim focus.

With a yip of shocked surprise, Buffy scrambled from his embrace and up to her feet, pulling the sheet with her as a makeshift toga, unaware of her lack of nakedness.

“Where ya goin’, luv?” Spike drawled in a sleep-roughened voice.

The rumble of words trickled down through her body like thick molasses and settled as a glowing warmth low in her belly. How could someone cold and dead make her feel so warm and alive? Okay, maybe he was room-temperature and undead, but that wasn’t as yin-yangy.

“Second date, yeah?” he continued. “Could start now, here, a nice roll between the sheets,” Spike suggested lasciviously. 

Buffy looked around, averting her eyes from the sex-on-a-stick voice coming from the bed, just in case he was less dressed than she was, getting her bearings as the grogginess lifted from her. Candles, cavern, bed as big as an aircraft carrier, annoyingly sexy blonde planted in the middle of said bed. It all added up to one thing: Spike’s crypt … or the underground expansion thereto.

“First: no. Second: you call  _that_  a ‘ _date’_?” she demanded, waving a hand out behind her, as if pointing to the previous night. “And, third: a  _world_  of no. There will be no rolling around between the sheets!” she insisted in her best stuck-up-bitch voice, which she’d perfected over long years of practice, mostly while talking to Spike.

Spike shrugged, undeterred, her tone not having the desired effect. He’d developed an immunity to it over those years of exposure. “Could just roll around atop ‘em, then … or on the rugs, if ya don’t mind a burn on your sweet arse. Course, could just stand up and…”

“There will be no rolling, standing or otherwise! Free milk is bad for the gander.”

Spike arched a brow and lifted up on one elbow, though she still wasn’t looking at him. “How’s that, then?”

Buffy licked her lips and wished she had a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a bathroom to go with them. A bathroom was becoming a pressing issue. Did Spike have a bathroom? “There is no rolling without dating, and that was not a date in the view of the judges.

“Traditionally, a date is spent doing date-y things, with the time-honored custom of buying of beverages and food-like-substances. The ritual offering of flowers wouldn’t be out of the question. The presentation of chocolate is optional, but advised. This all comes before the milk, which is earned based on the merits of the dates –  _plural_  – in the customary parlance of dating.”

Spike smirked, reaching for his fags and lighter as he sat up against the pillows. “Kinda sounds like I’m buyin’ the milk, luv. So just what does that make you?”

Buffy sniffed derisively as she tried to decide if that opening at the back of the cavern might lead to a bathroom, or just straight to the sewers with no intermediary. Her bladder was starting to not care. “It makes me the Russian Judge, and you’ve already lost two points,” she huffed as she headed for it.

Spike chuckled, lighting his cigarette with a flash of flame and a glow of orange in the gloom, watching her make her way for the tunnel. “Fair enough, then,” he agreed, blowing a stream of smoke out. “But I’m countin’ last night as date number one.

“Also, WC’s to the left, luv,” he told her as she opened a door on the right. “That’s the dry closet.”

Buffy sighed in relief as she darted for the room on the left. She wasn’t telling him, but he’d just won half a point back. If he had toothpaste in here, he might even edge ahead in the scoring.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

There had been flowers. Or, well,  _flower_ , upon Spike’s arrival at Buffy’s doorstep to pick her up for their date. He’d presented her with a single pink rose that Buffy thought Spike might’ve picked from Mrs. Kowalski’s garden next door. Without evidence to support that supposition, however, she dismissed the charges and awarded him half a point for it. When he told her their destination for the night, she took two-tenths back.

Spike would’ve preferred the Bronze to Willy’s, but didn’t want to take any chance of the Slayer’s interfering little sidekicks showing up in the middle of it. That wouldn’t do at all. Plus, he had a tab running at Willy’s, thus bypassing the need to have actual dosh on hand, which he didn’t.

With a burst of vampire speed, a black swirl of leather slipped past Buffy and pulled the door open on the seedy demon bar. She paused and looked over the tableau with a critical eye as his duster came to rest against his legs. She shrugged and continued in, calling back, “Two-tenths deduction for having to use vampire speed,” as she entered the establishment.

“Bugger,” Spike grumbled, following behind her. “That’s not bloody fair.”

“Too bad for you, the judge’s decision is final,” she snarked back, pressing the grimy, 1970s hanging-beads to one side with a grimace. Willy really needed to take those down, even  _she_  could smell years of blood, bile, and beer on them. It better not get on her outfit – the red leather pants were dry clean only, and the black, imitation-silk blouse was supposed to be. Woolite was a broke-but-fashionable Slayer’s best friend.

“ _Slayer_! How you doin’,  _Slayer_!? What can I get you,  _Slayer_?” Willy announced loudly, making Buffy roll her eyes.

“Relax, Willy, this is a social visit, not business,” she assured the bartender.

Spike guided her up to the bar with his hand splayed over the small of her back in a possessive gesture. That should’ve lost him points, but, in fact, got him back the two-tenths he’d lost at the door. Not that she was telling him that. It made Buffy feel respected and valued, not possessed. With that simple gesture he was announcing to the room that they were together; if anyone started something with one of them, they started it with both of them. He had her back, literally.

“Spike, Slayer!” Willy greeted them, still speaking too loudly, his beady, rat eyes darting around the room furtively. “What can I get ya?”

Spike ordered his usual. “O-neg and a bottle o’ Jack. And let’s have a platter o’ those nachos – and don’t skimp on the peppers this time.”Spike turned to Buffy. “Whaddya want to drink, pet?”

Buffy’s brows rose. The whole bottle of Jack was for him? She shook it off, clearing her throat as she looked at the drab collection of bottles along the wall behind the bartender. They all looked miserable and depressing, like ‘sad’ in liquid form. She didn’t want any more sad in her life, she’d had all she could stand since her latest return from the dead.

“What’s that?” she asked, as a shiny label covered in colorful fruits and flowers caught her eye. It was about the size of an average beer bottle or a wine cooler.

Willy turned to see what she was pointing at. “New brewer in town,” he told her, bringing the bottle over for her to look at. “Just got it in last week. They’ve been a big hit! Everyone loves ‘em.”

Buffy’s brows furrowed as she tried to sound out the name on the bottle. “Chyména Mystiká?” she questioned, unsure if she’d gotten even close. Those little accent thingies always threw her. She looked up at Willy. “What does that mean?”

“It’s all Greek to me!” he punned, wheezing a laugh.

Buffy looked at him blankly.

“Greek? Get it? It’s Greek…” he explained with a huff.

Buffy raised her brows, silently pressing for more.

Willy shrugged. “Just a glitzy name. Something mysterious and classy to sell more,” he explained with a sigh.

Buffy nodded and looked down to see if there was anything in a language she actually spoke, like, say,  _American_. “A unique flavor in every sip.” She scrunched up her face and looked back at Willy. “That sounds abby-normal. How does it work?”

Willy busied himself wiping the grungy bar top with an even grungier rag. “Dunno, but it’s been a big hit.”

Buffy looked at Spike. “Have you tried it?”

He shook his head but took the bottle from her hand, studying it a moment. Greek, eh? It’d been a while since he’d had the need, but his brain started sorting through the archives to try and suss out the meaning. Spike brought up his game face just long enough to use a fang as a bottle opener, then took a swig of it. He rolled it around in his mouth a moment before swallowing. “Peach schnapps,” he announced with a shrug, unimpressed.

“Yeah, but take another,” Willy urged him.

Spike took another mouthful and his brows furrowed as he let it settle on his tongue a moment before swallowing. “Cinnamon rum,” he announced, taking another drink. “Lime tequila.” He looked over at Willy. “Gotta be magic involved in that,” he accused derisively, setting the bottle down.

The weaselly man shrugged. “It passed all the government inspections: FDA, USDA, TTB, CDC, ASPCA, LMNOP.” Willy shrugged again. They must teach shrugging at bartender school. “All the acronyms have cleared it.”

“No one’s died from it, right? O-or gotten sick? Or turned into a rat?” Buffy asked, looking around more closely now and seeing several patrons of the bar with one or more of the colorful bottles on their tables.

“Nope,” Willy assured her. “Like I said – very popular.”

“I’ll have one of those, then,” she decided with a definitive nod. The bright, shiny, happy bottle spoke to her. She wanted bright, shiny, and happy inside her again. She missed bright, shiny, and happy.

“Dunno if that’s such a good idea, Slayer,” Spike warned, eying the bottle suspiciously as bits of Greek began to assemble in his mind.  _Chyména Mystiká,_ he repeated silently. _S_ omething about secrets. Poured Secrets? Leaked? Spilled?  _Spilled Secrets._  He smirked. Spilled Secrets … he was sure. He began to open his mouth to warn Buffy, but stopped when his gaze met her defiant glare.

“Two-tenths off for trying to tell me what to order,” she huffed, raising her chin rebelliously and flipping her hair back over her shoulder.

Spike’s eyes narrowed, his hands going to his hips.  _Gonna play it that way, eh? Right then. Have yer fill, Slayer. Let’s see what’s brewing in that head o’ yours_. “The Slayer’ll have one o’ those, then,” the vampire ordered, giving Buffy a wry smile.

“Right,” Willy agreed, grabbing a bottle of Jack and a cold Chyména Mystiká, and placing them on the bar along with two glasses. “That’ll be…”

“Put it on my tab,” Spike interrupted him, grabbing the bottles in one hand and the glasses in the other.

Willy sighed heavily. “Who do I look like, Rockefeller?” the bartender objected. “You already owe…”

“Like the décor in here, do you?” Spike asked, the threat clear in his tone, despite the smile on his face. “Could do a little redecorating for ya.”

Willy released another put-upon sigh and rolled his eyes. “On your tab,” he agreed. “The nachos and blood’ll be out in a few.”

“Ta ever so,” Spike offered with saccharine sweetness before looking around and choosing a booth. “Here we are, pet,” he invited Buffy, waving the hand holding the bottles toward a ripped Naugahyde and scarred wood niche in the corner.

“Ummm … there are …  _things_  sitting there already,” she pointed out, eyeing the two large, blue, warty demons already in the booth.

“No worries,” Spike assured her, ushering her forward.

Buffy shrugged and began that way, keeping her steps in time with Spike’s so they arrived together.

“Move,” Spike told them casually as he came up to the booth.

One of the blue demons began arguing in a language that apparently didn’t have any vowels. He was soon joined by his friend, their deep voices vibrating the air like tectonic plates shifting. Despite the lack of graspable remarks, the hard consonants and earth-shaking growls peppering their rumbles made it clear to Buffy they didn’t want to move.

“Spike, it’s alright, we can sit…” she broke in, not feeling like a fight tonight – at least not one over a grimy booth.

Spike ignored her, replying to the demons in their own language. Apart from a few ‘buggers’ and ‘wankers’ thrown in, Buffy couldn’t understand any of it, but she couldn’t help being somewhat impressed that Spike could speak it.

Suddenly, the demons’ purple eyes went wide and jerked over to Buffy, then back to Spike. They hurriedly slid out of the booth and lurched to their feet, towering over both blondes like mountains over Muhammad. Buffy’s hand was reaching for her stake when Spike said, “Ta,” and the two big creatures grabbed their beers and lumbered away to find other accommodations.

“Did you just threaten them with me?” Buffy asked as she eyed the ripped and worn seat, trying to decide if that was just stuffing coming out or something more sinister.

Spike gave her an innocent smile as he sat the bottles and glasses down on the table and slid into the booth, forgoing the inspection. “ _Moi_?” he asked in mock horror. “Big Bad hide behind the Slayer’s skirt-tails?”

Buffy finally decided the seat was not too dangerous to her wardrobe and sat down opposite him. “Not hide behind, wave around in the air, like an overconfident gunfighter in the old west … just before he gets shot.”

Spike chuckled, opening her bottle of magical fruity flavors for her with that fang-bottle-opener trick. “You make a lovely six-shooter at my hip, pet. Most beautiful gun in the west, you are.”

Spike started to pour her drink into one of the glasses, but Buffy put her hand over it, stopping him. “The drink might’ve passed alphabetical inspection, but I don’t think that glass did,” she pointed out, wrinkling her nose and eyeing the suspiciously blood-like streaks that glazed the surface. “I’ll just have the bottle.”

Spike shrugged and handed it to her. She took a small sip and hummed in delight. It was something tropical and fruity – piña colada-esque? – with a little bite at the end. It absolutely tasted like she’d hoped – bright and shiny, like a lazy day on a warm beach under a cheery sun. While the warmth of the liquid tingled her throat, his words warmed something deeper –  _most_   _beautiful_. It had been a long time since anyone had called her ‘beautiful’, even Spike. The flush that rose to her cheeks wasn’t just from the alcohol.

Spike followed her lead, foregoing the glass and upending the bottle of Jack for a long swallow. He was on a date with the Slayer. Second date, by his reckoning. And she hadn’t popped him in the nose once! True, he’d lost some points to the soddin’ Russian Judge, but he still had time to make that up.

“You should be careful brandishing decorative weapons, ya know,” Buffy warned him with a sly smile. “They might not fire when you want them to. Also, three-tenths off for that.”

“That’s bollocks!” Spike argued. “Should have points added on fer getting the best booth in the place without a drop o’ blood bein’ shed. That’s what you’d call superior negotiating skills.”

 _‘The best booth in the place?’_  Buffy thought sarcastically, looking at the deep scars and old carvings in the once-smooth tabletop – ‘once smooth’ being sometime in the last century, she guessed. “’Spike + Dru 4-Ever’,” she read one of the larger carvings, lifting her eyes and giving her date a smirk. “The heart around it’s a nice touch.”

 _Bugger!_  He’d forgotten about that. That’d cost him a whole point if he wasn’t careful.  _Think! Think!_

“Dunno what you mean,” he sniffed, leaning back nonchalantly. “Must be some other ponce thinking he had eternal love carvin’ up the pine.”

Buffy barked out a laugh. “Some other Spike and Dru, huh? Two points off for denying it.”

“Oi!” he objected, jerking forward in his seat, his blue eyes flashing gold for the briefest of moments. “That’s a bit harsh, even from the Russian bint!”

Buffy sat back in her seat giving him a sweet smile which covered a grimace when she felt something sticky cling to the almost-silk of her shirt. “You need to own your past, Spike. It’s not like I don’t know about it. And, even if I didn’t, another of the arcane customs of dating is the sharing of factoids and fact-like anecdotes.”

Spike slumped back and took another swallow of Jack from the bottle. He splayed his hand out on the table over the carving he’d done years before. Dru had been sitting right were Buffy was now, bouncing in her seat with childlike exuberance as he scratched their names in the wood with a claw. Of course, a few minutes later he’d had to pry her away from a Brachen demon, not that that had been anything new.

Buffy’s eyes were drawn to his hand. She knew the strength of it. Knew the pain it could mete out. Knew it had ended more lives than she wanted to think about. But in that moment, she just saw his hand – not his past. His long fingers stretched over the old memory carved in the table. They looked elegant, almost delicate against the rough wood. Like a musician’s or a surgeon’s, perhaps. The chipped, black polish on his chewed-to-the-quick nails ruled out the surgeon, she decided, but musician was still in the running. He had really nice hands.

“Spent over a century thinking we were eternal … literally,” he admitted, tracing a finger in the groove of the heart around the names.

Buffy nodded, watching the emotions play over his expressive face as he looked down at the table and into the past. There was still heartache in there under his normal bravado, and she even got a sense of very un-Spike-like insecurity pass through his eyes. She knew that feeling too well. The certainty that it was your fault, that you were unlovable.

“I thought Angel and I were forever, too,” Buffy said at length, a note of understanding in her voice as she turned her full attention to the colorful label on her bottle. “I mean, I know it’s not a century, but… when the future you imagined dies, it still hurts, even if you’ve only been dreaming it for a few months.”

Spike nodded and took another swig of his whiskey before answering. “Think that’s sometimes the hardest thing t’ let go of, yeah? That vision. Ya got a whole story in yer head o’ how things’ll be, places you’ll go, people you’ll eat, blood you’ll bathe in together under the stars, and …  _poof_  – gone. Leaves a hole inside, that does. Not easy t’ fill back up.”

Buffy bit her lip, nodding. “Yeah, all that blood bathing is hard to let go of,” she agreed sarcastically.

She couldn’t, however, argue with his point. Angel leaving had left a hole inside her where her future had been – it still ached from time to time if she let herself look deep enough. Even Parker had left a small hole… visions of dates, and long, meaningful talks, and taking him home to mom. Those weren’t as hard to pave over – a little pothole on the highway. Riley had left a crater of unfulfilled hopes and dreams, too. He’d inspired the ‘normal life’ vision of her future, which had crumbled into dust little by little until it collapsed in on itself, buried by its own weight, as he flew off.

Buffy looked up to find Spike studying her with those all-seeing eyes of his. It was like he could look inside her, see more than she wanted to show him. If he didn’t wear his own heart in their cerulean depths, she’d feel at a disadvantage. She cleared her throat and took another sip of her drink – cinnamon tingled and burned down her gullet like a ball of fire. She had to clear her throat a couple more times, there may have been coughing involved, before she said, “The judge awards half a point for sharing and another half for astuteness.”

A slow smile eased over Spike’s lips, like a cat stretching in the warmth of the sun. He was getting the hang o’ what this judge wanted, now. He took another chug of his whiskey. That ’10.0’ was his for the taking.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“Ya know,” Buffy complained as she gingerly flicked slices of jalapeño peppers from her side of the nachos over to Spike’s, “When I said ‘food-like’ before, I had kinda been hoping it would bear a closer resemblance to actual food.”

“What?” Spike questioned, lifting up a nacho chip dripping with a bright orange, vaguely cheese-like substance and piled high with a leaning tower of pepper slices which rivaled the one in Pisa. He leaned in and captured the entire creation in one bite with only minimal orange-goo spillage.

Buffy lifted a pepper-free nacho up, holding it over the platter until the orange stuff stopped oozing from it. “If I get any of this on my shirt, you’re paying to have it cleaned … and half a point off.”

“Oi!” Spike objected after swallowing the bite and judiciously licking the spillage from the corners of his mouth. “Not my fault if yer a slob, Slayer. I’ve provided beverages, the best nachos in this block – okay, this  _building_  – and entertainment. Above and beyond, that is.”

“Entertainment?” Buffy wondered, eyeing the nacho, judging its ooze-factor carefully.

Spike waved a hand at the bar. “Got to see two brilliant demon fights – ringside, no less – and a striptease act.”

Buffy braved the nacho, leaning in and propelling it toward her mouth with Slayer speed before another drop could, well, drop. Despite the cheese sauce looking like it’d come from somewhere near Chernobyl, it actually didn’t taste bad. Which didn’t mean she wouldn’t be lit up like a glowworm later, but…

With the food safely in her mouth, she looked around the bar, brows furrowed, as Spike took another nacho and dipped it in his blood before shoving it into his mouth.

“Striptease?” she asked after swallowing, looking back at him. There was a drop of blood running from the corner of his mouth. Buffy pointed to her own face, mirroring him. “You’ve got …”

Spike’s tongue darted out and swept it up. Had he always had such a long, dexterous tongue? It was practically prehensile. A shiver slipped down her spine as she thought about what he could do with that tongue. It was vampire strong, too, three out of three on the ‘wow’ meter – that was quadruple salchow territory.

Buffy cleared her throat and took another sip of her drink, looking away from him as a flush rose to her cheeks. She was on her second bottle, and this one had different flavors than the first one. That must be why the flush … absolutely, that was it, nothing to do with tongue of Spike.

Spike swallowed his blood-soaked nacho and tilted his head toward a slinky, cat-like demon with fur in a kaleidoscope of colors covering her head to toe. The lithe demon was currently sitting in the lap of one of the blue guys Spike had commandeered the table from. “The Felidae demon?” he reminded her as he sized up another bite of nachos.

Buffy turned her gaze back over to feline. The long, lean tabby was straddling the blue guy’s hips and appeared to be kneading his chest with her claws while nuzzling her whiskers against his neck. One of the blue demon’s big fingers was softly stroking the kitty’s tufted, black ears – the only thing Buffy suspected might be her natural color – while his other huge hand was splayed from hipbone to hipbone, engulfing her whole lower back.

“Oh. I thought it was stalking a rat or something.”

“Ya did see her take off her coat, yeah?” Spike wondered, eying the two nearly-empty bottles of Spilled Secrets the Slayer had downed.

Buffy shrugged and turned back to the nachos. “I figured she was just hot.”

“She’s hot alright,” Spike agreed in a tone that nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

“Three-tenths off for calling another … err … female hot,” she announced. “You do know that’s  _not_  her natural color, right?” Buffy pointed out, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

Spike’s brows went up. “Not ones to judge, are we, pet?”

“The more you talk, the more points you lose,” Buffy warned.

Spike grinned and shrugged. “Worth it for the show, I reckon. Starkers, she is, if ya hadn’t noticed.”

The Slayer arched a brow and looked back over at the big, colorful kitty, realization dawning.

“Please tell me they aren’t having sex right there,” she demanded in a low voice.

Spike chuckled, taking another sip of his whiskey. “Incompatible naughty bits,” he explained. “Well … most of their bits are.” The smile that played over his lips and the wistful twinkle in his eyes said that some of the kitten’s bits were harmonious with Spike’s. “A Felidae’s tongue, now,” he continued. “That’s compatible with—”

“Stop! You’re about to lose  _all_  your points,” Buffy warned sternly.

Spike smirked and ran his own tongue across his teeth salaciously. “You said we should share. I’ll tell you my tongue stories, you tell me yours.”

Seemingly from nowhere, a thought popped into her mind and she had an overwhelming urge to do just that – share. “One time, Xander described you as ‘strong and mysterious and sorta compact but well-muscled’.”

Spike choked. “Bloody hell! Tryin’ to permanently deflate certain very important parts o’ my anatomy!? Or just see if ya can make a vampire hurl?”

“Here’s another secret,” Buffy crooned alluringly. “I agree.”

Spike stopped spluttering like he was trying to get a bad taste out of his mouth. “Do ya, then?”

“Well, not the mysterious part so much,” she admitted. “More like open-booky, and he forgot the dreamy eyes and razor-y cheekbones and a few other really appealing areas.”

“Do tell…” Spike purred, mischief dancing in those dreamy eyes.

“I like your hands. They’re very … handy … with the fingers and opposable thumb and all.” She stopped and scrunched her face up in thought. Pressing the platter of nachos to the side, she reached across the table to take one of the hands in question into hers. The Slayer turned it palm up, and lightly ran a pink nail down one long finger, then trailed it over his lifeline and heartline like a fortune-teller. Tara had done this for them all a time or two, mostly just for fun. Buffy tried to remember some of the readings the witch had bestowed as she studied his deadly, delicate hand.

“This says your heart gets broken easily,” Buffy said softly as she kept her eyes on his palm, tracking his heartline with a manicured nail. “These gaps mean you’ve experienced heartbreak.”

She looked up and met Spike’s eyes across the table, giving him a knowing smile. “I guess that’s an understatement, huh?”

Spike shrugged, feeling somehow too exposed suddenly. “Didn’t know you were a palmist, pet,” he observed neutrally.

“Another secret for you,” she granted, looking back down at his hand. “This line says you have a short attention span and your mind tends to wander.”

Spike snorted. “Don’t need a gypsy t’ tell me that.”

Buffy grinned and traced another line. “This one says you will have a point in which you will sacrifice your interests for the sake of others.”

Spike closed his fingers over hers, stopping her inspection. “More than once, I reckon. Love’s bitch, yeah?”

Buffy looked up at him, searching his eyes for the truth. If you watched his eyes long enough, you’d see the truth of Spike. For an evil creature of the night, Spike was a horrible liar. “How can you love without a soul?” she asked finally, keeping her penetrating gaze locked on his, daring him to try and lie to her.

Spike shrugged one shoulder, but didn’t look away from her challenge or pull his hand away. “Same way men  _with_  souls kill, rape, and pillage, I reckon. I dunno exactly what a soul is, luv … what it does. Far from a philosopher or a man o’ the cloth, I am. All I can do is look around – and I’ve had a bloody long time on this Earth t’ do that. What I’ve spied with my little eye tells me a soul doesn’t make ya good, and lack of one doesn’t make ya evil. Hitler had a soul, Stalin, Genghis Khan. Didn’t Ted Bundy have a soul?”

“I guess,” Buffy agreed. “But Angel … I mean … he…”

“Soul doesn’t make ya a broody git, either, does it? Otherwise Hitler would’ve been sittin’ in his bunker hanging his head all ‘ _woe is me’,_  instead’a invading Poland and blitzing London. Angel’s got a curse, luv … and the return o’ his eternal soul is the least of it, if ya ask me.” 

Buffy sighed and looked back down at their joined hands. “Here’s another secret,” she confessed. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot since … heaven. I mean, look around us.” She waved a hand at the demons in the bar. “None of them have souls as far as we know, but most of these demons don’t kill or eat anything worse than things that soul-having humans kill and eat. Heck, some of them are vegetarians.”

Spike placed his other hand atop hers and waited for her to look up at him. Her head rose slowly, her eyes tracking up as if afraid to look, but finally met his intense gaze. “Believe me when I say I don’t need a soul t’ love you, and I bloody well know what love is. Also know I’m a monster, Buffy. Know I’ve done horrible things. But you make me feel like I can be better, be a man, a  _good_  man. You make me …” Spike paused, trying to remember her words. “Make me want to sacrifice my interests, my demon’s interests, for the sake of others … for you.”

Tears welled in Buffy’s eyes and she swallowed hard, trying to keep her emotions from spilling over. She blinked and swiped at her eyes with her free hand before laying it atop their joined hands already on the table. “I’m not sure I’m worth that, Spike.”

“I’m sure enough for the both of us,” he replied solemnly.

Buffy swallowed again and let a small, grateful smile curve her lips. “Plus five points.”

Amusement crinkled the corners of Spike’s eyes as he bit down on his lower lip, taking her in. She had a glow he’d not seen of late, and a peacefulness to her that made his heart swell. He could almost see the protective walls crumbling behind those green eyes as the secrets slipped between the cracks. “Think that puts me over 10.0, doesn’t it, luv?”

Her smile turned furtive. “The night’s still young – I’m sure you’ll have time to lose them again.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“And Angel was like, ‘Not to go all schoolyard on you, but you hit me first,’” Buffy sneered as she finished the third bottle of Chyména Mystiká. She slammed it down on the scarred tabletop as she continued her story. “And then he was like, ‘Get out of my town!’

“HIS TOWN!?” she protested angrily, running a finger through the dregs of the orange cheese-substance that remained on the empty nacho platter. She shook her cheese-covered finger at Spike for emphasis as she spoke. “I’m the Slayer – the whole world is MY town! And then he had the nerve to come up here and ‘pologize, like … ‘you know I didn’t mean it’.  _Pffft_!” she grumbled, sucking the cheese off her finger. “Jerk.”

“Angel’s a wanker,” Spike agreed as he lifted a hand, catching Willy’s eye, and pointed at the Slayer. In a few moments another open bottle of brew was in front of her. The vampire leaned back in the booth, one arm resting along the back as he watched her start on her fourth bottle. He’d never heard her talk about the magnificent poof like this. It made the big, green monster that lived inside him do a little jig … perhaps even a cartwheel or two. He’d have to nick a case or ten o’ this stuff from the backroom, take it back to his crypt to keep on hand just for the Slayer. Would be the hospitable thing t’ do, right?

“I went because he was in danger!” Buffy continued ranting. “And it wasn’t like he hadn’t come into  _my town_  because he thought  _I_ was in danger before. You remember that Thanksgiving?”

“Remember it well. I got shot full o’ arrows, you made a bear, and none of you lot would get me any soddin’ blood.”

“Exactly! And Angel didn’t even tell me he was here! You all knew, but why tell stupid Buffy, right? What the hell did you all think I would do? Jump his bones in the courtyard?” she scoffed.

Spike shrugged. “I didn’t care, but Rupert told me if I said anything, he’d leave me out to meet the sunrise tied to that soddin’ chair. Seemed bloody serious.”

“I’m not an idiot, ya know?” Buffy complained, taking another sip of her drink. There was that lime tequila. She wasn’t a fan. She quickly took another sip to clear the tartness. Mai Tai. Much better.

“I know that, pet,” Spike agreed. “Bloody brilliant, you are, if ya ask me. Keep savin’ the world, you do, even though you’re pulling that ragtag bunch o’ Scoobies outta the fire at every turn.”

Buffy nodded. “They’re very flammable,” she agreed with a pout. “But I still love them … mostly.”

“No accountin’ for taste, I reckon,” Spike muttered.

“Huh?” she asked, eying the empty nacho plate to try and find any bits that might be large enough to pick up with the tip of her finger.

Spike waved a dismissive hand. “Should forget that wanker … wipe him from your mind, pet.”

Buffy nodded decisively. “Wanker wiped,” she agreed, her head spinning slightly from the vigorous bobbing. She took another drink of her Chyména Mystiká. That should help the spinning. “You wanna hear a secret?” she whispered, leaning forward conspiratorially.

Spike leaned in, as if he would need to be close in order to hear her.

“I thought about having sex with you that night … when you were tied to the chair. Then, I was gonna go see Angel the next day. He would’ve lost his mind … you know … cos of the creepy vampire smelling?”

Spike’s brows went up, a smirk curving his lips at the thought. “Did ya, then? And why didn’t you?”

Buffy sighed. “Because it would be wrong,” she droned unhappily, sitting back and taking another drink. There was the peach Schnapps! Yummy.

Spike snorted. “Wouldn’t’ve heard any complaints from me,” he assured her. “Mind, would’a needed a quart or two o’ blood to shag you properly.”

“That’s what I always liked ‘bout you, William da Bloody,” she continued, letters dropping from her words like dead flies off a ceiling fan. She squinted at him across the short distance, trying to get her eyes to focus, swaying slightly in her seat. “There’s no washy-wishiness with you. Never gotta wonder what you’re thinkin’ – it’s like a slideshow your face … but not like those horrible ones of your cousin’s stupid vacation to Mt. Boring! Also, it has sound … it comes right out from between those very sum … sump… shush lips. So … a slideshow with sound effects.”

Spike’s brows rose again. “Sumptuous lips, is it?”

Buffy ignored him. “Also, you never try to tell me how t’ do my job and you never apol … ap … apple-o-gize for hitting me.”

Spike snorted, picking up his empty JD bottle and setting it back down again. He instead dug into his duster pocket and pulled out a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes and his Zippo. “You’re the bloody Slayer – was my job t’ hit you. And, seems to me you haven’t had any problem playin’ hero without any unsolicited advice from yours truly,” he agreed, pulling a fag out of the pack with his sumptuous lips. Flame sprang to life with the magic of flint hitting steel as he thumbed the wheel. The tobacco glowed orange with a deep inhalation of mentholated nicotine before he snapped the lighter closed and stuffed it all back into his pocket. 

“A-and then, when you stopped hitting me, you had my back without being a conde… con … send … a know-it-all like that wiped wanker,” Buffy continued before picking up her empty bottle and upending it over her open mouth. Two or three drops of what tasted like Kahlua dripped onto her tongue. “And you don’ even have a soul!”

“Cos I’m not a soddin’ wanker,” Spike pointed out, flicking the ash from his cigarette onto the floor, adding to the decades-thick layer of grunge that resided there, cleverly preserving the original linoleum beneath for a future archeologist to discover.

She thumped the bottle back down on the table, looking at Spike with wide eyes. “Sss-xactly!!” she slurred, stabbing a finger in his direction. “Tha’s why I like you, William T. Bloody. You wanna know another secret?”

“Does it include shagging me?” he wondered, arching a brow as he took another drag on his cigarette, making the end flare brightly in the dim light of the bar.

Buffy blinked slowly and shook her head. “I may be ineb … inebre … a little bit drunk.”

Spike barked out a laugh. “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know, Slayer. Think I should get ya home, yeah?”

Buffy frowned. “No home. Home bad. Walk … walking good.”

Spike stood up and offered her a hand. “A stroll about the promenade it is then, my inebriated little lamb.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Buffy took a deep breath as soon as they were outside, inhaling slightly less stale and much cooler air, clearing her head a bit. She didn’t take her hand from Spike’s as they started down the street, choosing directions and turns at random. It felt nice – his hand holding hers. It fit around her smaller one perfectly – not too big, not too small – the Goldilocks just-rightness of hands.

“Wanna know a secret?” Buffy asked as they passed a used car lot. Bright, neon signs on the windshields proclaimed the cars to be ‘CLEAN!’ and ‘LOW MILAGE!’ and ‘ONE OWNER!’ She snorted to herself thinking if that ‘one owner’ had been Spike, then that wasn’t really anything to brag about.

“Wanna know all your secrets, luv,” Spike assured her as they continued down the sidewalk toward a more residential area.

“I’ve never had sex in a car,” she declared seemingly out of nowhere, waving a hand at all the cars in the lot. “Dontcha think I should’a had sex in a car by now? O-or on the beach, no beach-sex for Buffy,” she pouted. “Or in a plane, or a train, or a bus, or a boat, or a haystack. People always seem to be having sex in haystacks in movies, but I don’t think I know where to find a haystack.”

Spike brows rose with each word, his teeth clamped down over his bottom lip to keep from interrupting her. When she took a breath he said, “Haystacks are overrated, pet – scratchy. As is the beach. Right sandy, that – not brilliant on sensitive bits. The rest? Be happy t’ help ya out with those and any other ya fancy. Could start with one o’ these cars, if ya want, but I’d personally recommend a limo – more room t’ maneuver.”

“A limo! I’ve never had sex in a limo!” Buffy whined. “I hadn’t even thought of that one.”

“At your service, M’lady,” Spike drawled, doffing an invisible cap and wagging his brows at her invitingly. “Just tell me where to start and we’ll have you shaggin’ in the middle of Piccadilly-bloody-Circus ‘fore ya know it.”

“You are a gentleman and a scholar,” she extoled in a haughty tone. “Only without the gentlemany and scholarly parts,” she added with a smirk. “Is there anywhere you  _haven’t_  had sex?” she asked, looking at him askance as they crossed into a block that was lined with apartments on either side, their hands still linked.

“Your bed?” he shot back immediately with a guileless grin.

She gave him a scathing look that told him he knew what she meant, and he’d soon be losing points if he didn’t answer properly. Funny how those liquid, sea-green eyes of hers could turn to deadly shards of jade in the space of a heartbeat.

Spike sighed and squinted off into the distance, thinking. After a few steps he said, “In the sun.”

Buffy nodded. “Guess you should’ve had sex with someone when you got the Gem of Amara before you let me take it away from you. That way, you could’a checked off every sex-having place from your bucket list.”

Spike snorted his agreement. “You seem t’ be recoverin’ your wits. Shame that,” Spike grumbled teasingly.

“Slayer metabolism,” Buffy said with a sigh.

Spike nodded, he could relate. 

“That stuff was good though – all those flavors in one bottle was nifty.”

“Not keen on the magic,” Spike repeated. “Stick with good, old-fashioned eighty-proof, m’self.”

Buffy waved a dismissive hand. “I’m fine … still have all my fingers and toes. No big.”

Spike arched a brow at her. Had she not noticed all her spilled secrets? Apparently not.

A small dog barked at them from one of the apartments as they passed. It pushed the curtains aside and yapped wildly in a window in solemn pursuit of its sacred duty as protector of the castle.

“I never had a dog. You’d think the monks could’ve given me a dog along with a sister … or instead of!” Buffy confessed. “How much easier would it’ve been to take care of a dog instead of a sister?”

Spike chuckled. “Nibblet’s a good lass … just, well, a lass – young, yeah?”

Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes. “Want another secret?”

Spike waved his free hand in invitation.

“When I was just a little older than her, I was Called. I tried to tell Mom and Dad what was going on – about being the Slayer and vampires and everything. They thought I was having a breakdown or on drugs or just plain crazy. They put me in a psych ward, complete with the fashionable long-sleeved jackets and little, yellow, feel-good pills. I had to stop talking about vampires to get out of there.”

Spike stopped dead, pulling her around to face him on the sidewalk. “Joyce said she’d never heard ‘bout you being the Slayer…”

Buffy rolled her eyes, standing facing him in the yellowish halo of a street light. “I think she totally blocked it out. There may have been some wholesale slaughter of brain cells with bourbon to make it permanent.”

Spike reached out his free hand and touched her cheek gently. “I’m sorry, pet.”

Buffy shrugged. “Bridge. Water. Burned. I just … I don’t know. I just think maybe Dawn could try a little harder. I mean, I understand trauma – I’m totally down with the traumatism – but you’ve got to deal and move on, right?”

“I reckon,” Spike agreed, and they began walking again, each lost in their own thoughts for a while.

When Buffy looked up, she was surprised to find they were near the UC Sunnydale campus. “Here’s a secret for you,” she offered, breaking the comfortable silence. “Riley showed me how they put your chip in … and how to take it out.”

Spike once again stopped dead, yanking Buffy back around to face him, this time more urgently. “You can take it out?” he demanded, his expressive, blue eyes wide with shock and hope.

“Well, not me … but there was a machine the doctors used. It did it all automatically. They strap the … patient down, knock them out, and put this thing around their face. It looked like that slimy alien in that movie, ya know? Well, not the slimy part, but the wrapping around your face part. It has a little thingy that goes up through your nose, past your sinuses and right into your brain.”

“A machine shoved its finger up my bleedin’ nose?” Spike asked, horrified, his free hand covering his nose protectively.

Buffy shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve had larger things shoved in more exclusive orifices,” she chided him.

“Oi! Dunno what fanciful yarns Peaches spun in your pretty, little head, but…”

Buffy laughed. “Methinks the vampire doth protest too much.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “So … brain shaggin’ machines?” he prompted, getting back to the point.

“Yeah, I mean, they’re probably all still down there.” Something inside Buffy’s mind sounded a ‘danger’ claxon, but it was very faint and very far away, muffled, perhaps, by magical brew.

“But … they need doctors t’ operate ‘em,” Spike speculated.

Buffy shook her head. “I watched them for a while during my … orientation, the doctors were there, but they weren’t really doing anything once they strapped the thingy on. They’d be doing two or three at a time, and the doctors were just walking around making notes and talking. They were taking the chips out of some and putting them into others. Their main thing was studying what it did to the brains and stuff, afterwards.”

“Show me this bloody machine!” Spike demanded as he began dragging her away from the street and across the grass, heading for the wooded area around the school where the old caves led into the underground laboratory.

“Maybe that’s not a great idea,” Buffy hedged, though she didn’t pull out of his grasp. Why had she even told him? It was like she couldn’t stop herself from saying whatever came to her mind – all the places she’d never had sex, and wishing Dawn had been a Chihuahua and the mental hospital – those weren’t just things she would normally blurt out. Even now she didn’t seem to be able to stop herself from following him, as if she  _had_  to show him the machine, had to spill her secret.

“Just show me. Curious is all. Couldn’t do anything ‘bout it anyway, could I?”

Buffy chewed her lip. “But … we don’t know what’s down there,” she tried, still being dragged in his wake as he found the cave and began inside. “A-and it’s dark.”

Spike stopped and released her hand. Buffy stood still, the vast darkness in the cave piercing painfully into her eyes. “What are you doing?” she whispered, though why she was whispering, she wasn’t sure.

“Got some old supplies here, gonna see what’s still serviceable,” he replied in a normal voice as she heard him moving things around. “Right, then …” he said at last. The flash of his lighter made Buffy blink, then a candle flared to life. He handed it to her and lit another one.

“Spike, maybe we could come back later,” she suggested, even as she began walking, following him deeper into the cave.

“No time like the present, Slayer,” Spike insisted, holding one hand up to keep the flame on the candle from blowing out as he strode deeper into the cavern.

“ _Urgh,_ ” Buffy growled in frustration as she followed him. Part of her knew she shouldn’t show him – just like she knew she shouldn’t’ve even told him – but a larger part, the overriding part, felt a deep need to divest herself of this secret.

“Thought I remembered right,” Spike said after walking a few minutes. He held his candle up to a wall of spaghetti-like electrical wires, some culminating in OSHA-approved breaker boxes, others, not so much. “Adam tapped into the whole system, yeah?” Spike explained. “Was able t’ cut the power from here … should be able to turn it back on.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Buffy wondered, staying back out of electrocution range … she hoped.

“Pr’ly not,” Spike agreed as he started flipping the biggest switches first. On the third switch, there was a loud ‘ _POP’,_ making Buffy squeak in surprise and duck. Spike cursed and jumped back. Both of their candles snuffed out from the movement, casting them into inky blackness, but a moment later, there was light.

He turned a smug grin on her. “’And God said, ‘Let there be light; and there was light.’’”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “You’re no god,” she insisted.

“You haven’t shagged me yet,” he taunted. “Change your mind after that, you will.”

“Modest much?” Buffy grumbled as she began following him again. They made their way up to the still-open vent that led into Dr. Walsh’s extra-secret lab within the Initiative’s secret headquarters. Secrets all around tonight, it seemed.

“Maybe we should wait and let anything living down there clear out?” Buffy suggested.

“C’mon, Slayer, not afraid of a few little HSTs, are ya? What would a date be without a bit o’ the rough and tumble, eh?” Spike urged, crawling through the vent.

“You’re losing points,” Buffy warned. “Lots and lots of points. The Russian Judge is not impressed.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

If there had been anything alive in the bowels of the lab, it had left by the time Buffy and Spike got to the main floor. There was lots of deadness, though. Some gooey. Some mummified. Some just bones. The whole place smelled of decay and burned things that Buffy didn’t want to think about. None of it was winning Spike any points. Even the British and American judges were deducting heavily from his overall score.

After a disgusting trek past things Buffy hoped to never see again, she and Spike stood in front of the ‘Behavior Modification Microchip Automated Implant Endoscope 2000’. It was dusty – perhaps it could even be described as grimy – beneath bright fluorescent lights. It certainly didn’t look like the gleaming surgical instrument Buffy remembered, more like its down-and-out forth cousin thrice removed.

“So, how does it work, then?” Spike asked, looking over at her.

Once again Buffy felt like she shouldn’t be telling him, shouldn’t be here at all, but a larger part needed to share her secret. “They strapped them down,” she relayed, pointing at the table and various straps for multiple legs and arms. “And then put this mask thing on them.” She pointed at a mask that was attached to a retractable, multidirectional arm that hovered above the table.

Spike pulled it down and looked it over. The mask had adjustment straps for heads ranging in size from ‘vampire’ to ‘elephant’. It looked something like an old WWII gas mask – the kind with the large, single filter in the center. Where the filter would be on a gas mask, however, was a very delicate-looking endoscope apparatus with tiny pincers on the end. On the side of the mask was a button with the word ‘Start’ next to it.

“Okay, you saw it, we should go now,” Buffy urged.

“Just a mo’,” Spike muttered absently, releasing the mask and letting it retract back up on the arm. He walked around to the control panel on the machine where the retractable arm originated, looking it over intently. Seemed simple enough.

Power: On/Off. Mode: Insert/Extract. Emergency Stop.

Well, that last didn’t give a bloke any warm fuzzies. There was a dial to set the depth based on skull size. Spike considered that – probably wouldn’t be brilliant to get that wrong.

“Spike, please…” Buffy plead with him. “I showed you. Let’s go.”

“Sure, pet,” he agreed, catching sight of an operation manual shoved into a small cubby beneath the control panel. He looked over at Buffy, but she was looking back the way they’d come, clearly anxious to go. He grabbed the booklet and stuffed it into a pocket of his duster. He was at her side the next moment.

She looked up at him, biting her lip worriedly. “You aren’t gonna do anything stupid, are you?”

“Pffft!” Spike dismissed as they started walking. “’Course not, pet. Appreciate you showin’ me.”

Buffy nodded as she skirted something large and gooey and stinky in their path. So much for not seeing this stuff again. “I trust you, Spike … I trust you to do the right thing. Don’t let me down, okay?”

Spike took her hand in his, stopping her. He lifted it to his lips, touching a soft kiss against her deadly knuckles. “Love you, Buffy. Never let you down, pet. To quote a great poet, ‘Everything I do, I do it for you.’”

She rolled her eyes, but let a smile curve her lips. “Only you would think Bryan Adams is a great poet.”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“So … here we are, then,” Spike said as they topped the porch steps of Buffy’s house.

“Here we are,” Buffy agreed nervously, stopping in front of her door and turning to face him. The porch light was thankfully off, leaving them in semi-darkness, lightened only by a distant street light.

Spike stopped just on the edge of her personal space, his hands stuffed down into his duster pockets to keep them still. “So … how’d’ya reckon the score turned out?” he asked uncertainly, his eyes flicking to the door behind her, then back to her eyes. Was he to be invited in or turned away … again?

Buffy gave him a wry smile, narrowing the distance between them slightly and laying the flat of her hand on his solid chest. Though there was no heartbeat, she could feel it rising and falling with his unneeded breath, which seemed to match hers exactly. “Well, let’s see, points earned for: flower, food-like substances, tasty beverages, sharing feelings, walking with me, telling me I was beautiful – even if it was in the guise of a weapon at your hip – offering to widen my horizons by having sex with me anywhere and everywhere except in the sun, being sympathetic about my asylum phase, and not making fun of me when I suggested Dawn would’ve been easier to train and protect if she’d been a puppy, and telling me I was worth changing for.”

Spike smiled, that sounded like a bleedin’ boatload of points to the good. “So, what does all that properly brilliant behavior earn me, then?”

Buffy reached behind her and tested the door to make sure it was unlocked. She was both relieved and annoyed to find it was – another talk with Dawn about security was on the not-too-distant horizon, apparently. “You get another secret from me.”

Spike sagged. Bloody fucking hell in a handbasket! What did a bloke have t’ do to get in good with this bleedin’ woman?!?

“Are you listening?”

Spike pursed his lips and glared down at her. “All ears,” he ground out.

Buffy leaned in closer, pressing her body against his and wrapping her arms around his neck. She pulled his lips down to hers and kissed him softly, feeling his lips give beneath hers before he recovered and returned the kiss. Spike wrapped his arms around her, pulling her body against his harder, one hand cupping her ass, pressing her hips tightly against his rapidly growing reaction to the kiss. His tongue tested and teased, waiting for his invite into her warm mouth, and then, there it was. Her lips parted for him and he was bathed in the feel of her, the flavor of her, the heat of her. Their tongues danced and swirled around each other, savoring all the flavors of the night one last time while relishing the underlying essence of the other – that addictive spice that was uniquely theirs.

Buffy pulled away with a desperate gasp for air, aware that if she didn’t pull away now, she wouldn’t pull away, perhaps ever. Her body burned for more, burned to devour and be devoured, to dance in his arms from here to Piccadilly. But there was something even more urgent inside that she had to tell him now. Something that frightened her. The biggest secret of all, perhaps. If she waited, that urge to share it with him, to spill it, may be lost – buried in the craters of past heartbreak. It couldn’t stay buried; it had to be shared or it would burn her to ashes.

With her heart galloping in her chest and her breath coming in shallow, nervous gasps, she steeled herself and let the final secret spill. “Your score was a perfect ten, but I’m not gonna sleep with you on the first date,” she breathed, though whether she was telling him or herself was hard for her to decide.

“Second date,” he corrected.

“I’m not sleeping with you tonight,” she insisted. “I’m not ready yet … but … I will be. Soon.” She hesitated then, gathering her courage for the real secret. “I will be soon because … I love you, Spike.”

He’d been diving back for her mouth, thinking he could perhaps move that ‘soon’ up to ‘now’, but stopped short, pulling back as if slapped. He blinked at her, not sure he’d really heard what he’d just heard.

Buffy swallowed and took a small step back from him. She met his eyes and cupped his hollowed cheek with one palm. “Thank you for a… interesting evening. I have to work tomorrow. Second date Friday night – The Bronze. Dawn’s sleeping over at Janice’s, so we’ll have all night.”

She waited until she saw comprehension begin to dawn in his eyes, then went on, “I’ll meet you there at nine … There will be dancing – another arcane ritual that couples perform on dates. And, Spike?”

He blinked again, shaking his head slightly to make sure nothing had somehow rattled loose and was making him hallucinate. “Yeah?”

“Put up a mirror in your bathroom … it’s not girl-friendly.”

The penny dropped like an atom bomb in Spike’s brain. If he’d had a heartbeat, it would’ve stopped, or perhaps just exploded from his chest. “Mirror. Friday. Bronze. Nine. Dancing.”

Buffy smiled up at him, patting his cheek like a particularly bright puppy.

“See you then. I love you. Good night.”

And with that she was gone in a blur of golden tresses, the door closing behind her, the lock clicking, as Spike stood staring at it, dumbfounded.

“I love you, too, Buffy,” he said after period of stunned silence. “Friday. Nine … Bronze. Got it,” he assured himself before turning and sailing off the porch in a swirl of black leather. An exuberant howl could be heard for blocks in every direction as he floated on air down the deserted street.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Spike hadn’t earned a reputation for being a thinker, but, to be fair, it hadn’t been on his goal list for the last century. There was a time, however, before the demon started making the rules, that his brain had been his biggest asset. It was time he dusted the grey matter off and took it for a test drive.

He’d been hyped up like a hamster on speed after leaving Buffy’s house the previous night. Unable to sleep, Spike had read the operations manual for the ‘Behavior Modification Microchip Automated Implant Endoscope 2000’. It really was as straightforward as Buffy had said. Practically fool-proof, which was good, because he was fairly sure operating on yourself was a fool’s errand.

But when would he have this chance again? They hadn’t cleared all the rubbish up yet, but who’s to say some desk-jockey wouldn’t realize all that expensive equipment was still there one day and send the moving vans to collect it?

To be free from the chip! Wasn’t that what he’d wanted since they’d shoved the buggering thing into his cranium? And wouldn’t he be a more effective ally to Buffy if he could face any and all dangers at her side? As he was, he was little better than those other gits she was always having to pull from the flames. At the mercy of the chip, any vanilla human could dust him, and he could do bugger all about it … other than run away like a git.

Down in the belly of the beast, Spike paced back and forth in front of the object of his salvation beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights. He’d been here since before dawn. His hair had started to curl he’d run his hands through it so often, and the floor was littered with two packs’ worth of cigarette butts. He’d promised Buffy he wouldn’t do anything stupid. So, the question was, was putting that mask on and having this machine shove a rod into his brain to extract the chip stupid or brilliant?

That was the question he’d been pondering for hours as he wore a path in the old floor, stirring up years of dust, pacing back and forth. In the end, it all came down to Buffy. What would be best for her. She’d said the words, hadn’t she?  _‘I love you.’_  He’d absolutely heard them. She’d also called them a ‘ _couple’_  – he remembered that, as well. She’d run off then, but she’d said them, and she’d be back soon enough. She said that too. Third date … or second – whichever – tomorrow night, and from there? Well, who really knew? Not eternity, she was human, the Slayer – but with Spike alongside, it could be years, decades even.

So, didn’t she deserve to have a partner who was her equal for those years? Not a chipped vampire who she’d need to worry over and watch out for, but one who could take care of himself and cover her back when she needed him.

Yes, he decided. She did.

With a deep inhalation and long exhalation of breath, Spike went to the control panel. “On,” he said as he flipped the power switch, and the machine began to hum steadily. “Extract,” he continued, setting the operation to be performed. “Human,” he continued, turning the dial on the size selector.

With a firm nod, he stepped around and sat down on the table beneath the retractable, multi-directional arm. He pulled the mask on, lining it up carefully, as it showed in the manual he’d read, and strapped it tightly around his head. Spike laid back on the table then, double-checking the mask alignment, and blew all the breath out of his lungs. This was it. He was at the point of no return.

Spike jabbed a tranquilizer dart into his neck with one hand and pressed the ‘Start’ button on the mask with the other. He could hear the endoscope start to whir and move as he lost consciousness.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

“Delivery for Ms. Buffy Summers,” Dawn sing-songed outside Buffy’s door.

Buffy rolled over and looked at the clock. It was way too early for this shit. “Go away!”

“You’re gonna wanna get up for this!” Dawn continued, adding a knock on the door for good measure.

Buffy cursed under her breath and pushed to her feet. Her head ached, her eyes itched, her mouth tingled, and her stomach roiled. God, what had she drunk last night? Way too much of whatever it was, apparently. It all came crashing back to her. “Oh … God,” she muttered, covering her bloodshot eyes with one hand and her knotted stomach with the other. She’d told Spike. She’d said the actual words right to his actual face.

Buffy yanked the door open and rushed past Dawn to the bathroom, just barely making it before the nausea overcame her ability to hold it back.

“Sounds like someone had a good time last night,” Dawn teased. “You shouldn’t try to out-drink a vampire, you know. They always win.”

 _God, tell me that isn’t from firsthand experience. Dog. Why couldn’t the monks have given me a dog, instead?_ Buffy wondered silently as her stomach revolted.

Buffy emerged from the bathroom looking worse for wear, but at least her stomach had stopped trying to mount an escape. She stopped short when she saw Dawn standing there with her delivery.

“There are eleven of them, which is weird, right?” Dawn asked, admiring the vase of pink roses.

“There’s another one in a bud vase in the kitchen,” Buffy related, a small smile quirking her lips with the realization that Spike  _hadn’t_  picked it from Mrs. Kowalski’s garden. It matched these perfectly.

“So, what does one have to do to get a dozen pink roses? And chocolates?” Dawn asked in a mocking tone, holding up a box of Godiva that had come with the roses. “ _Hmmm_?”

Buffy scowled at her and took the vase and chocolates from her hands. “Nothing that is the business of nosey little sisters,” she huffed, taking the deliveries into her room.

The roses smelled heavenly! And they were her favorite shade of pink, not too dark, but not too light, either. Just right. Goldilocks-right.

And Godiva chocolates! Not just  _any_  Godiva, either – the thirty-six-piece gold box.

“What does the card say?” Dawn wondered, following Buffy into the room.

Buffy sat the vase and chocolate down on her dresser and pulled out the card. Her smile widened as she read it. “’You are worth every sacrifice, my beautiful Slayer. All my love is yours forever. William T. Bloody.’”

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Spike woke slowly, his head swimming, the lights above too bright. There was a horrible déjà vu moment under those lights and he jerked up, only to drop back down onto the table as the room tilted and whirled then wobbled precariously on its axis. He dropped one leg off the table to touch a booted foot to the floor, trying to find something that wasn’t imitating a particularly energetic carnival ride. That helped marginally and allowed him to get his bearings and remember where he was and why.

He pulled at the mask, but it seemed properly stuck, finally pulling free with a squelching sound. It retracted back up to the arm above when he released it. The groggy vampire rubbed is face and found what had glued the mask to his skin: blood. Plenty of blood. Enough to coat his whole face beneath the mask.

“Bugger…” he swore, letting his eyes fall closed again. He didn’t feel any different – well, other than the tranq hangover. He touched his nose gingerly. That was absolutely the source of the blood, but it seemed to have stopped. Did that mean it worked or that it didn’t work? He ran through his ‘ABCs’ and ‘123s’, a few multiplication tables and a list of curse words in several languages. Brain seemed intact, at least.

He only remembered the spent tranq dart in his neck when he tried to sit up again, and he pulled it out, dropping it on the floor before pushing woozily to a sitting position. Blinking a few times, he got the blood out of his eyes and managed to make them focus before reaching up and pulling the mask back down for inspection.

Spike reached in and pulled a small microchip from between the clamping fingers of the endoscope within the mask. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, looking at it. It seemed too small to cause so much pain – had part of it broken off and stayed inside him? But it was perfectly square; didn’t look damaged or even chipped …  _ba-dum-bum_.

Spike stumbled up to his feet, wobbling dangerously. Not bothering to turn the machine off, he made his way back toward the exit vent and cave beyond, lurching from one handhold to another for balance. There was only one thing he wanted more than to lay down and sleep for a few years, and that was to get the fuck outta this place before he did it.

He managed to remember to shut down the main electric grid as he left, dragging himself back to his crypt on nothing but stubborn willpower. As the sun was rising Friday morning, he collapsed onto his bed, bloody and exhausted, but feeling more powerful than he had in years. He knew he still needed to test it, to make sure it was really gone, but that would have to wait a little bit longer.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Spike had changed shirts four times. This is was bloody ridiculous. He wasn’t meeting the soddin’ Queen, it was a date. With Buffy. With the promise of – well, maybe not a  _promise –_  but a  _hint_  of more to come. He finally decided on the black button-down shirt with the white, paisley-esque motif. Not too fancy, but fancier than his normal t-shirt.

He really didn’t feel any different now that he’d gotten some blood into his system and gotten cleaned up – but he wouldn’t, would he? Not until he tried to hurt a human … so that’s what he’d need to do now. A test.

He left his crypt at the break of dusk, heading for Willy’s. Clem owed him some cash, which he’d need at the Bronze, and the best place to catch Clem was in Willy’s backroom.

Spike passed an elderly man in the cemetery cleaning the leaves off what had to have been his wife’s grave. Spike could put the old coot out of his misery and test the chip at the same time. Would be doin’ the bloke a favor, wouldn’t he? But, as Spike approached and saw the loving way the old man was tending to the grave, something stopped him. Would he have the balls to continue living if he lost Buffy? Would he be tending Buffy’s grave again one day? Or would he take the coward’s way out and meet the sunrise atop it?

He kept walking.

Spike passed the hookers on Lincoln, assessing each one as he sauntered by. Bloody hell, they were young. But what kind of life would they have out here on the streets? Would be doing them a favor to take them out early, wouldn’t he? Save them a life of despair and pain … But they were so bleedin’ young! Who said they couldn’t turn their fate around and find love and happiness around the next corner? Maybe not likely, but it was possible. Was it up to Spike to decide who got that chance and who didn’t?

He kept walking.

Spike came upon a beggar sitting on the sidewalk with a small dog sleeping at his side. They both smelled of life on the street. Urine, stale beer, weeks-old sweat, and years of failure hung on the old man like a cloak. A small sign that read, ‘Hungry,’ printed in a shaky hand on an old bit of cardboard leaned against the man’s legs. There was a grubby ballcap on the ground next to him with a few coins and small bills in it, donations from passersby. If anyone could use a merciful end to their life it was this bloke. It wasn’t someone he’d typically bother with – the stench was godawful, and he knew the old bugger’s blood would taste rancid in his mouth, but, for a test case … maybe. The little dog, who looked as old as the man, lifted his head and growled at Spike. The man reached over and scratched the dog’s ears, stopping the growl and eliciting a happy thump of a tail from the elderly mutt. Spike sighed, dug into his pocket and dropped a dollar into the ballcap.

He kept walking.

This was bloody ridiculous! Since when did he start thinking about his victims? Since when did he see them as  _people_ instead of prey? Since when was he such a bloody ponce?

Since loving Buffy. Since promising Buffy. Since Buffy.

Maybe he could just smack Willy around a bit. No permanent damage, just a little test. He nodded to himself and picked up the pace. That was a plan he doubted even Buffy could find fault in – she’d beat Willy up a time or two, herself.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Spike walked out of Willy’s with no dosh and no test done. Willy hadn’t been there, and Clem didn’t have Spike’s soddin’ money. Clem had tabbies, but the Bronze didn’t take bloody kittens! What Clem did have was a step-second-cousin that owed him money and supposedly had it. All Spike had to do was go pick it up at the Palm Royale, one of the swankier clubs in town, where Clem’s nominal relation, Gage, worked.

Spike took a deep breath outside Willy’s just to calm the fuck down. He still had plenty of time before the designated 9 p.m. date with Buffy. If all else failed, maybe he could test the chip on Harris. Nothing serious, pretend to trip and smack the annoying whelp on the head or whatnot, all accidental-like. Not the test he’d envisioned, but it could be gratifying.

With a new plan in place, Spike headed off toward the Palm Royale.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Spike stuffed the bills down into his pocket as he came out of the kitchen of the fancy club after meeting with Gage. The not-quite-as-loose-skinned-as-Clem demon had given him more than Clem owed, but Spike wasn’t complaining. He’d have enough dosh to show Buffy a properly good time tonight and still afford to grace her doorstep with another dozen roses upon the morrow. Or, well, whenever it was she went back home. The promise of having her in his arms all night and well into Saturday kept his jeans uncomfortably tight in certain, key areas.

“Mirror!” he said aloud, hitting his forehead with the heel of his hand, as her assertion that his crypt wasn’t girl-friendly, came back to him. “Bugger…” he muttered, striding through the club back toward the door, wondering if he still had enough time to dig one up. Suddenly, a female voice raised in anger caught his attention.

“Yeah, it's the seeing you part that's throwing me here, Warren, because I thought I was pretty clear with the never wanting that to happen again!”

Spike turned to see the git who’d built the Bot for him, Warren, talking to a young woman, much to the woman’s dismay, it seemed.

“Never's a long time, baby,” Warren asserted, his attention riveted on the brunette.

“Apparently not long enough!” she declared vehemently.

“I just thought we could talk, Trina. I thought maybe we could work things out,” Warren continued, trying to placate her.

“There's nothing to work out. What you did was sick. And just looking at you makes me want to vomit!” 

“You sure about that?” Warren asked with an undertone of threat, but before the woman could answer, Spike’s hand was on the large man’s shoulder, pulling him around, away from her.

“Sounds like she’s sure t’ me, mate,” Spike insisted. “Seems like you’ve got a bad habit o’ putting your nose in where it don’t belong, robot boy. The Slayer tells me you’ve been mucking about in her affairs, as well.”

“Shove off, chippie,” Warren warned. “I figured out what that chip does, ya know? So … run along and let the adults talk now.”

Spike’s brows shot up. “Adults, is it? All I see in front o’ me is a pile o’ rubbish in a fancy suit.” Spike turned his eyes to the woman. “Is this bloke bothering you, pet?” Spike asked her.

“So much!” she insisted, picking up her jacket and purse, preparing to leave. “He needs to stay out of my life, like I told him to!” she exclaimed as she began to storm past the two men.

“Not so fast,  _sweetie_ ,” Warren sneered, grabbing her arm and yanking her back roughly. Katrina stumbled and fell awkwardly. Only Spike’s quick reflexes kept her from smacking her head on the edge of a table as she went down. In one motion, Spike set her back onto her feet and spun around with his fist cocked. He connected with Warren’s gut, sending the big man rolling across the floor. Spike flinched reflexively, reaching for his head … but there was no pain. There was no chip. There was no leash. And if anyone deserved to be a ‘test case’, it was this wanker.

“The Big Bad is back, baby!” Spike howled to the ceiling in jubilation, his game face emerging the next moment. There were gasps and cries from the other patrons in the bar who had been watching the scuffle behind the safety of their gin and tonics and expensive hors d'oeuvres.

Across the club, Warren regained his senses and stumbled back to his feet, reaching into his pocket for the only weapon he had: the cerebral dampener he’d been planning to use on his ex. His main target was gone. New plan: he could have a vampire as his own, personal, Slayer-killing machine. He thought the chip in Spike’s head wouldn’t have let him harm anyone, but apparently his calculations had been off. He could take advantage of that. With Spike under Warren’s control, he could aim the blonde right at that meddling bitch of a Slayer. Maybe she’d kill Spike – maybe Spike would kill her. If he was lucky, they’d kill each other.

Spike was on the nerd in the next moment, appearing in front of Warren without visibly crossing the intervening space. And in the moment after that fangs were sinking into flesh.

Rapture! Bliss! Fresh, hot, blood flowed into Spike’s mouth like mana from heaven. How long had it been? Too long. Much, much too long. Warren struggled fruitlessly, trying to get free, to get the shiny, magical orb from his pocket. It was no use. Spike was too strong, and Warren’s vision was going fuzzy at the edges as his life flowed from his body into the vampire’s.

Somewhere in the back of Spike’s mind a warning sounded, complete with red and blue flashing lights, ringing bells, and an air-raid siren. Someone might’ve also been jumping up and down frantically waving emergency flares. Buffy. Buffy wouldn’t want the wanker dead. Killing is bad.  _It would be wrong_. He’d promised to be better. To be a good man. Promised to sacrifice his demon’s needs for her.

With strength Spike didn’t know he possessed, he withdrew his fangs from the hot, soft flesh and dropped the brunette to the floor with a ‘ _thud’_. Spike stood over the man, panting with effort, with adrenaline, with the flush of hot, fresh blood, and the rush of the fight, lame as it had been. With a disdainful glare at the nerd, who was moaning and writhing on the floor with one hand pressed against his neck, Spike stepped over him like the garbage he was, and headed for the exit.

With the world spinning and starting to go black, Warren pulled his hand from his pocket, grasping the cerebral dampener. “Spike…” he rasped, reaching his arm out toward the retreating blonde.

As Spike turned around, the orb fell from Warren’s fingers in a bright flash of magical light. Spike flinched back from the burst of white light, raising a hand over his eyes and blinking. He waited for the explosion, or for the light to burn him to dust, or transport him to another dimension, but none of that happened.

Spike snorted then, reaching in his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter as he sauntered back over to the downed man. “That’s all ya got, then? A bitty flashbulb, is it?” he taunted, crouching down next to Warren.

Warren had forgotten two things: One, to put on his magic-blocking sunglasses before deploying the orb. And, two, that a cerebral dampener made from the musk gland of a Homja-Maleev demon only worked on humans.

“Yes, master,” Warren croaked, grasping at the hem of Spike’s duster with trembling fingers.

Spike arched a brow and chuckled as he lit his cigarette. “Reckon that’s true enough – Angel’s all cursed, Dru’s mad as a box o’ frogs … leaves me, dunnit? Master o’ the Aurelians.”

Spike slapped his palm against Warren’s cheek just hard enough to get his attention, making the big man jerk his drooping eyes open wide. “Best keep that in mind, mate. See you or your cronies in town again, and you’ll see what a master vampire can do, eh? Best  _… shove off_ ,” Spike warned, tossing Warren’s words back at him.

Sirens were sounding in the distance – actual ones this time. Time for all good vampires to scarper. Spike chuckled at his own joke as he flashed through the gaping patrons for the door. Big Bad, Master o’ the Aurelians, the Good Vampire, protector of Christmas and puppies and damsels in distress. Old Bat-Face would be spinning in his tomb to see the fearsome Clan of Aurelius now. Well, he would if he hadn’t been ground t’ dust, that is.

“Mirror,” Spike reminded himself as he darted away from the Palm Royale, checking the clock on the Sunnydale Bank’s digital sign as he passed. If no other damsels or puppies presented themselves for rescue, he could make it to the dump, back to his crypt with it, and still get to the Bronze by nine. He’d have a properly girl-friendly loo for his golden Slayer in no time.

**** X-X-X-X-X ****

Even the Russian Judge would have to award Spike bonus points for the shiny mirror in the fancy, gilt frame that now hung over the sink in his WC. Fit for a princess, it was, and he’d soon have the fairest maiden of them all reflected in its silvery depths. He didn’t waste too much time pondering that since he was equally sure the Russian Judge would dock his points harshly if he were late to the dance.

Adrenaline surged through Spike, fueled by sweet anticipation and rich, warm, human blood straight from the vein. He strode cockily through the busy downtown streets, duster billowing in his wake. He was on a roll, in the groove, holding aces, master of his own fate and Master of the Aurelians. Big Bad was back! The chip was well and truly gone. He was free. Unleashed. Restored to his full glory. Humans scurried from his path like mice, sensing the predator in their midst, but he had no interest in them. The Slayer was his only objective now as he hurried to the Bronze, to his date with destiny. He’d been waiting for this chance for too long, and there was no way he was going to squander it. Tonight, everything would change. It was time for a proper dance with the Slayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a small liberty, dropping the Warren/Katrina scene into a spot that doesn't match up with where Buffy and Spike were in their relationship in canon. If you've rolled with the craziness of this story so far, I have faith that you can roll with that bit of poetic license.
> 
> For anyone unaware of the ‘Russian Judge’ trope: A Russian Judge is someone who plays favorites by scoring / judging others with excessive harshness. It comes from the communist-bloc winter Olympic judges during late Cold War who gave tens in figure-skating to communists and sixes to capitalists. 
> 
> To continue with relurker!


	8. Midnight Rambler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With heartfelt thanks to Twinkles, who gave me extra quick and good beta work-with which I then fiddled ;) - and extra kind encouragement.  
> Also super extra thanks to Yellowb! who issued this year’s call to (Corpse) arms

 

Adrenaline surged through Spike, fueled by sweet anticipation and rich, warm, human blood straight from the vein. He strode cockily through the busy downtown streets, duster billowing in his wake. He was on a roll, in the groove, holding aces, master of his own fate and Master of the Aurelians. Big Bad was back! The chip was well and truly gone. He was free. Unleashed. Restored to his full glory. Humans scurried from his path like mice, sensing the predator in their midst, but he had no interest in them. The Slayer was his only objective now as he hurried to the Bronze, to his date with destiny. He’d been waiting for this chance for too long, and there was no way he was going to squander it. Tonight, everything would change. It was time for a proper dance with the Slayer.

 

He slowed only a moment as the club came into sight, inhaled deeply…yes! She’d passed this way just moments before. The anticipation was a burning ache in his guts. He resumed walking, making no noise, full predator mode on.

A glance towards the bouncer: the big guy hastily looked the other way and Spike was in, no questions asked. This late, the live act was finished and the place half empty. A quick search revealed that the Slayer was nowhere inside. What a bust! Although, it had been fun to make the birds in the little girls’ room squeal and act all outraged when he looked in there. No time to muck about with the appetizers, though.

His nose steered him to the back alley exit, and from there to a street, at the end of which he spotted her in a phone booth—talking animatedly and making big gestures with her free hand—as if the moron on the other end of the line could see her. She looked kind of frazzled and windblown, which irked him a bit: his big showdown was coming! She should have at least made an effort and looked the part! Once within vampire hearing distance, Spike heard her saying ‘… _no, no, couldn’t! Also, now I’ve got this whole different crisis, so you’ll have to go looking for_ -’ right then, a stupid-looking car screeched to a halt by the phone booth; the Slayer cut the conversation short and hurriedly jumped into her Watcher’s wheeled box, they left, and that was that.

Spike realized that he had absolutely no idea where the De Soto was parked, and even if he did, by the time he could get behind the wheel they could be fifty miles away… or maybe five, considering the Watcher was driving. Also, he’d no idea where they could have driven to: could be to some emergency fight, urgent hair re-styling, or to plain old home, brush-your-teeth and beddy-bye.

What a bummer. Grand entry and epic fight were already out of the question for the time being: if she was going to fight some big beastie, he was not waiting around to have sloppy seconds, and if she was going home to Joyce, the hike to Revello—and where was that, again? In any case, _Joyce_. His mind had been so focused on his goal, everything else felt vague and kind of blurred. In his (admittedly rich) imagination, the deadly dance with the Slayer had featured her wearing hot leather pants, some nice lace or silk or both, high heeled boots, sometimes a Xena costume, but never, _never!_   jammies and bunny slippers.

He turned around to make his way toward… Restfield, was it?--if that was were he was hanging his figurative hat these days, he couldn’t very well remember—most of all, he was feeling cheated and let down, and the burn in his stomach was making it hard to concentrate, so when his knee bumped into something, he went down ass-over-teakettle in the middle of the sidewalk. The shame! Luckily there weren’t many people about to see him in such an undignified stance. He rose on one knee with a slightly yellow-eyed glower meant to silence eventual bystanders, to find himself eye to eye with a small girl, the object on which he’d stumbled. The girl was looking out at him from under dark bangs with saucer-big eyes, and had a fight or flight stance. His stomach clenched. The high anticipation had turned the blood sour, and he was feeling almost queasy with it. He straightened up, and the girl was still there. Not really his thing, little girls. He’d procured more than a few to Dru, of course, but couldn’t see the point to it. This one couldn’t have been more than five years old, no nonsense sneakers and kiddies’ clothes, her straight dark hair in short braids that were coming undone. Could a vampire get heartburn? He was having queer feelings in his chest region. He didn’t have time for any of this, just wanted to go to the crypt, if he could remember just where exactly it was, and wallow in disappointment and bourbon till the time was right again to go find the Slayer and… kill her dead? Yes, that was the goal.

He stooped a bit, looked the chit right in the eye and said, “Boo.”

The girl winced but didn’t move.

“I said, booo! Why are you still here?”

She still wasn’t running, but now she had brimming eyes and a trembling lower lip.

“Move! Go home, or wherever you want… just get out of my way--I’m bad news for you, girlie.”

Finally, the girl was showing some genuine distress. It went some way to soothing his bad mood. Why was he so disgruntled and disoriented? Chip off, right? Ergo, annihilate Slayer, bathe in her blood, keep on with his grand bloody lifestyle: what more there was to it? But he didn’t even know which way was up right now, as testified by his tripping over a bite-sized specimen. The specimen was attempting speech. “I, I don’t know the way home.” She swallowed and went bravely on, “We’re new here.”

“New you are, for sure. Can see that by myself, can’t I? Still, what kind of daft parents don’t teach their child their address?”

“My Mum and Dad are not— _not_ what you said! No, I… I know it, it’s Chozzy Circle, or Cuzz...cussions-Cushy-ko-Conscience Circus?”

This surprised a bark of laughter out of him. “You asking me? You really don’t know? ”

“I know it, I do know it! It’s… it’s just difficult, is all. We used to live on Maple Street… But! I have it written down.”

Spike turned his eyes toward the sky: of all the idiot things that could happen to a chip-free bloodthirsty creature of the night, honestly set to cure his odd queasiness by getting plastered until the big battle he was _certainly_ having not later than tomorrow, dealing with a funny travel-sized brat with an attitude and tears in her eyes was the absolute tops. “Let’s see, then.”

The girl raised an unsteady finger, pointing to his boots—no, not his boots, behind them, which explained why she hadn’t skedaddled yet: a tiny backpack was there, probably fallen when she and his knee collided. Spike picked it up, together with an outrageously garish and sparkly toy that had spilled out of it.

“So, you were out on the town at half-past midnight all on your own… why?”

The girl grasped her backpack and toy with a deep trembling sigh of relief, and hugged them like a lifeline. “I was asleep in the car, we’ve been at Gramma’s. I woke up, and Dad was yelling at some weird ugly people, Mom was out of the car too, and she told me to run, that she would came after me, and those guys were—they had _teeth_!-so I ran, but Mummy still hasn’t come and I’m scared-”  Here she ran out of breath, and just as well. Spike knew exactly what had been going on, it was the oldest trick of cowardly fledglings: flag down a car in an isolated street on some pretext, eat the contents, and drive away to hock whatever valuables there were and the car itself. Only a non-Sunnydale native would have fallen for it.  He looked at the shaken child with something like pity. She was rummaging in her backpack, and extracted a flower shaped booklet. “Here is the name of my street, and… I was going back to the car, only I lost the way.” She took a breath, bit her lip, and said the magic words: “You—could you help me find them?”

It wasn’t right, what those nitwits did. You killed a family, you made it a clean massacre, you didn’t leave little orphan girls to fend for themselves. His heartburn was getting worse. There was no sense in taking the girl to see her parent’s corpses,  but he didn’t feel like taking her back to an empty place, either. He read the street name, just to take time. “Kosciuszko Circle. _Kosciuszko_? Now _that_ is just nasty. I take back what I said, you’ve got a right not to know it. Why in the bloody hell would a street be named after some Polish toff here in Sunnydale?”

The child had no answer to that. She looked intently at her toy, but answers didn’t seem to be coming from that party as well. Spike rolled his shoulders to get rid of the notion and accepted his doom. “Come, I’ll take you to- to somewhere else, where they’ll look after you for the nonce.”

Looking just about ready to plop down with exhaustion, she shouldered her backpack, adjusted her grip on the toy and followed him. Just to keep her awake, he asked: “What’s that you’re holding, a crossdressing horse?” The girl looked puzzled. “She’s Princess Marigold, my Unicorn.” 

“Oh, for f-… never mind, I should have known.” They walked in silence for a spell, the girl clutching her unicorn close to her heart, the vampire feeling morose and unsettled. The girl stumbled. Spike frowned down at her: she was half dead on her feet, and the teary eyes and trembling lip were making a grand return. “You’re slower than a turtle. All right, then, I’ll carry you. Can’t spend the whole night dragging my feet to accommodate your stumpy little legs, can I?” She readily settled herself astride his hip and held on to his duster with her free hand. Spike had rarely held a willing child like this, and she felt supple and warm in his arms. The thankful little smile she directed his way almost made him stumble in turn. “I’m Phoebe”, she piped with a return of liveliness, “and you are…?”

“Spike. Or I thought I was, but you’re making me question myself.”

The statement left her frowning in question, but he didn’t elaborate further, lost in his perplexities. Her warmth was actually helping with his malady, it seemed, the cramp in his gut easing a little. Something was seriously wrong with him.

He went back toward the- whatever the club was named, with a half idea of leaving her there with an anonymous call to the police: not many places open were he could leave a little girl, but of course those venues were also prime vampires’ hunting ground, so, no. Maybe the hospital?  Though he did hate hospital smell. The sound of voices had him retreating into the shadows of a closed shop entrance. It was the little red witch, the Slayer’s bosom friend, together with the boy. They were arguing, it seemed, about what to do next.

“He’s not here’, the boy was saying, ‘and just as well. What were we going to do to stop him, ask him to tea?”

“No, but the waitress said that a guy that could have been him was just in the girls’ bathroom, someone complained. Now we can give Buffy a report and a starting point. Where to now, the hospital? The police?”

“Me, I think this whole night is a nightmare. We should go home: I have work and you have class tomorrow—or later on _today,_ unfortunately.”

Willow looked at him with sad puppy eyes.

“All right! Put away the wounded look, we’ll keep wasting perfectly good sleeping time, as always. The Xan-man doesn’t leave his friends to fight the fight without him.”

“Let’s try the hospital first, there must have been a lot of paperwork and they won’t have finished yet. And, Xander? The talking in third person… let’s just not.”

They walked away.

Spike was thrown. They were looking for _him_? What for? His only business was with the Slayer, those two he could just swat away like flies. Who was at the hospital? Was the Slayer hurt? She’d looked fine half an hour ago. Belatedly, he thought that he should have kidnapped the sidekicks and had them spill the beans… His warm light bundle squirmed, making him start; he’d forgotten all about the girl for a second.

“Are they gone? Were they bad people? They looked allright, not like--”

“Hush. Let me think. I guess we will go to the hospital after all.”

The child’s eyes were huge and frightened. “My Mom and Dad? Are they at the hospital?”

“Not that I know of, poppet, but the thing is- I have business, important, urgent business, and there’s someone I need to see. You’ll have to come along for now.”

She didn’t understand at first, but then looked at him with wounded betrayal.

“But, but- we were looking for… I want my Mommy!” And the tears that she’d bravely tried to keep in check started flowing down her freckled cheeks.

Spike was lost. Phoebe was desperately crying with all the lack of restraint of an extremely shocked and tired child, and he was a scoundrel, a cad, a reprobate, and could feel the dishonour like a leaden collar around his neck.

“Hush, come on, don’t cry. We’ll find someone for you.” Even under the circumstance, he could not bring himself to lie and say that he would take her to her mum. There was evil, then there was plain cruel. The chit didn’t deserve it.

“You know what, the hospital is _just_ the place. They’ll know what to do, they’ll help you find… They’ll help you. Hush now, don’t cry.”

He started walking quickly in the same direction the kids had gone, and the brisk movement had the effect of calming Phoebe to silent tears and some sniffles. What a ghastly night to have for a little girl! Spike fished her a handkerchief from the depths of an inner pocket and held her closer. Soon the hospital was in sight, Red and Scruffy backlit in the entrance to the emergency room, talking with— The Slayer! She didn’t seem hurt in any way, which filled him with relief, because naturally he wanted her whole and perfectly healthy if they were to have their rendezvous, nothing less would do. Behind her he could see a couple of policeman, and one of them called: “Ms Summers, we’re done here if you’ll sign the statement.” She turned inside and went busy at the reception desk, near to a bearded guy with bandages all over his neck and arm. As Spike was nearing the entrance, the man was talking urgently to Buffy, who had her hand on his good arm. Spike instantly disliked the bloke. Who was still wearing their hair that long? The Slayer was nodding her head and saying something, but what she said Spike never heard, because suddenly Phoebe came out of her crying stupor: “DAD!!! Daddy!” She wriggled out of Spike’s arms and ran like a bullet straight into the embrace of the bearded fellow. While they were having a big jumbled feast of hugs and kisses, Spike and Buffy squared off, mindful of the full audience in the room. He fixed her with a death glare: “Summers, at long last. I believe we have a date. You ready to dance?”

Her expression was a strange mixture of dread and sadness.

“Spike. I see you’ve been busy. What were you doing with that girl? Was it friends of yours that…?”

“The hold-up? Who do you bloody take me for? I’d nothing to do with that kind of racket.”

“And the girl?”

“The _‘girl’_   has a name; she’s Phoebe, and she’s safe as houses, isn’t she? Her Mum, did they…?”

“ _Phoebe_ ’s mom is in ICU with a fractured skull, but not in life danger. I happened on them as she was hitting one of the ‘muggers’ with a trash can lid.” She looked around and saw that the policemen were occupied trying to get Phoebe’s story. With lowered voice she continued: “By the time I staked them all, both mom and dad needed to be carried to the emergency room stat, so I had Giles help me. I was going to go look for the daughter next.” She paused, frowned. “Tell me what were you doing with that girl. The truth.”

“I owe you nothing but a dance, Slayer. The little lamb was lost, now she’s not.”

Further words were interrupted by Phoebe’s dad, who came limping over to Spike, daughter firmly enthroned on his hip, just the way Spike had carried her.

“I want to thank you, for taking care of my baby girl. I have been blessed tonight, twice. You,’ -he looked at Buffy,- ‘saved me and my wife, and you,’-he looked at Spike,- ‘found my daughter and kept her safe. There aren’t words enough to thank you, both of you.”

Spike felt like he’d gone and went through the bleeding mirror, and words for once escaped him. Soundlessly, he proffered the unicorn, which had fallen at his feet when the girl run to her father.

Phoebe took it gratefully. “Thank you, Spike”, she said simply.

A nurse came up to them: “Mr. Howell, I can take you up to see your wife now.”

Dad and kid smiled big at each other.  “We’re going to see her”, and turned to follow the nurse.

Spike found his voice again as they were getting to the elevators: “You may want to move to a place with better street names! An address she can’t pronounce is less than useless!”

‘Dad’ called back just before the doors closed behind them, “I think we’ll just do that!”

“That’s actually very good advice”, said Buffy. They were the only people left in the lobby, apart from the nurse behind the counter.

Spike - with a little effort - slid into his Big Bad persona again. He leered at her: “So, Slayer, how are we gonna _do_ it?”

“Not that important. I already know how it’s ending, so… But I’d rather it be outside, if it’s okay with you?”

“Deal. Can’t stand the smell of these places anyway.”

Something in Buffy’s dour expression softened. “After you.”

“Have you gone bonkers? You go first.”

Buffy just gave him a half shrug and a boy-scout salute. “Nothing happens while we’re going out.”

So out they filed. As he was following Buffy toward the parking lot, the sharp pain of a bullet smacked him in the shoulder. “Bloody hell! I should have known you’d trick me! If you think this is enough to-”- and he fell sideways, stunned by the dart of the tranquilizer rifle Giles was holding.

__________________________

Buffy efficiently finished tying him up, and sat back on her knees.

Xander, with some apprehension, was the first to start: “Buffy, what are we gonna do with him? He’s chipless, and he’s killed, and he doesn’t even know…”

Giles continued: “As of now he doesn’t even realize what happened to him, but when he does remember, the weight of his guilt will be overwhelming. It could be a kinder option to just put him out of misery.”

Willow gently put her hand on Buffy’s arm: “It’s not the first time he’s been taken over by some evil mastermind. How many more lives can you risk?”

Buffy looked at them steadily, until they had to look away, and Willow’s ears became pink. “Willow. Guys. This isn’t what we do. We don’t kill our own people because they’ve killed. What we do is, we find a way to fix what’s broken. I’ll figure something out. Let’s go, now, I want him safe and chained in the basement before sunrise.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Dana Simpson won't mind my borrowing her Phoebe... I did give her back only slightly rumpled.  
> Stay tuned because next chapter is by sandy_s!


	9. Chapter Nine - Idle Hands and Lonely Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is by sandy_s.
> 
> Special thank you to yellowb for organizing the EC for a third time and for betaing my chapter and telling me to cut out the superfluous! Thank you to relurker for her lovely starting paragraph and extra big thank you to badwolfjedi for her beautiful mood board! 
> 
> The initial ending of the chapter was cut off, so the rest of the chapter can be found as a standalone/separate entity here on AO3 under the same name as this chapter.

  


Buffy looked at them steadily, until they had to look away, and Willow’s ears became pink. “Willow. Guys. This isn’t what we do. We don’t kill our own people because they’ve killed. What we do is, we find a way to fix what’s broken. I’ll figure something out. Let’s go, now, I want him safe and chained in the basement before sunrise.” 

“I agree with Buffy. We need to face what’s out there together,” Spike piped up from where he lounged against the wall – the way he usually did when he was backing Buffy and being thoughtful about everything that was said. “And you lot didn’t kill me when I turned all those girls under the influence of the First. We can’t kill the wolf. You know he’s going to need us, particularly you, Red.”

Willow’s eyes filled with tears. “I know. But I don’t know how he’s going to live with himself. He might want to die when he finds out what he’s done. He might want us to kill him.”

Buffy slid her arm through Willow’s in a comforting gesture. “We’ve all wanted to die at one time or another. We’ll bring him back.”

“It’s true,” Xander said from where he was slouching in a nearby chair and cradling his wounded arm. His eye patch had been lost in the earlier fight, and his scarred eye gleamed waxy in the low light. “We have. And we will.”

Liquid slid down Willow’s cheek in a rush. She extricated herself from Buffy’s arm, and she touched Xander’s shoulder. She sniffed. “I—I have to stay and work on casting the spell to prevent Xander’s bite from turning him into a werewolf, but I also know that if anyone can get through to Oz in the state he’s in, it’s me.” She paled, and her hand went to her stomach. “Oh, goddess. I don’t know what to do.”

“That’s why we’re here. To help each other.” Buffy sounded more confident than she felt.

She bent to rummage around in the weapons bag she and Spike had packed before their journey to this little farming town in middle-of-nowhere West Texas. She produced a tranquilizer gun and some chains and passed Spike an ax, which he hefted. She studied his face. His sharp cheekbones were shadowed, and his eyes were a dark blue, hiding how he really felt from her. It was strange, having him back in her life after all this time, and they were still figuring out where they fit in each other’s lives. He still hadn’t made a move, but he’d been firmly fighting by her side for the last six months as they traipsed around the world, rounding up more Slayers and dealing with demonic fires that kept popping up since the fall of Sunnydale. Maybe she and Spike were too busy for move making, but she often felt his eyes on her when he thought she wasn’t looking or noticing. He offered her a close-lipped smile now, and she nodded. 

Shoving aside any hope for rekindled romance with the emergency at hand, Buffy swallowed and continued to try to convince Willow that all would be okay. “Spike and I are going to find Oz and bring him home. Well, here.” Which was far from home. They weren’t in Kansas anymore and hadn’t been for a long time. Only this world didn’t have a yellow brick road. “And we’re going to kill the demon behind this whole deal.”

“What about all the other werewolves that she’s rallied to do her bidding out there?” Xander asked. “We can’t chain everyone in the basement. It’s kind of small.”

Before she died from her wounds, the Lubbock Slayer, whose main turf was an hour away from this small town, had managed to tell them that the demon had used a spell to draw werewolves and then force them to transform and slaughter the town members and each other. There was no word on the demon’s motive, but Spike postulated that it was likely nothing more than the run of the mill mayhem and slaughter, power and control. Sounded right to Buffy.

Buffy frowned. “It’s not a full moon, right? So the hope is that they all turn human again when the spell is broken.” The Lubbock Slayer had also said the werewolves had still been all with the fur and fangs while the sun was high in the sky. “We’ll have chains ready just in case.”

“At least chains for Oz and a few others.” Willow looked up from where she was studying Xander’s wounds and raised both eyebrows at Buffy. “Maybe I should go. I am the spell expert here.”

“No,” Buffy insisted. “You need to help Xander. What if he goes all wolf-y and runs off to participate in the slaughter?”

Xander leaned forward in his chair and shook his head. “We don’t even know if the prevention spell will work. It might be more helpful for Wil to go with you guys to try to unravel the spell at the source.”

“But you’ll still be a werewolf even if we do stop the demon.” Willow wrung her hands, looking younger and more vulnerable than she usually did. “I can’t lose you, too,” she whispered, and Buffy wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by that.

Xander shrugged a shoulder – the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’ll finally be like everyone else around here. At least we’ll know what to do around the full moon. And Oz will teach me what to do.” 

Willow made a face at him. “We love you how you are.” Donning her resolve face, she picked up his hand even though he winced a little at the pain. “I’m staying.” She addressed Buffy and Spike. “Find Oz for me.”

“We’ll find him,” Buffy promised, handing Willow the chains. 

After bounding down the stairs, Spike pulled open the door and a gust of air pushed its way into the small abandoned house, almost knocking him off his feet. “What the bloody hell?” He slammed the door shut. 

“A dust storm?” Buffy asked as she descended the last few stairs, noting the red dust settling on the floor. “Just what we needed to make everything easier.” 

“Looks like. More magic?” 

Buffy frowned, vaguely wondering if her Kansas notion wasn’t far off. “No idea.” 

Spike set his jaw and glanced back at Buffy. “Ready to move through it?”

She drew up alongside him and steeled her muscles for nature’s push back. She was ready to move through anything with him. “Of course.” 

* * *

Buffy and Spike plowed through the driving winds and flying dirt for about twenty minutes before Buffy couldn’t take it anymore. She couldn’t breathe through her nose and could hardly open her eyes. Sand granules were gritty in her teeth, and her skin felt like it was being abraded. The streetlights at the edge of the country town were blotted out by the storm, and everything around them was pitch black. She was letting Spike lead; he felt the pull of the demon’s spell and could tell what direction to go.  
Buffy opened her mouth to tell Spike that she couldn’t go on, but between the wind and dirt, she began coughing instead. Great. She couldn’t even be a Slayer in this type of environment. How was she supposed to stop a demon, end a spell controlling werewolves, and rescue Oz? 

She felt Spike grip her hand as he stumbled into her, and she was grateful that neither of them had gotten hit by any sharp weapons or flying debris. 

Instead of saying anything, Spike tugged her along, and she squinted against the darkness to see a glimmer of light – a tiny pinprick that illuminated the outline of a vehicle. He jerked the door open, and they scrambled inside. The key was in the ignition, and an old sounding song was playing over the car’s speakers.

Spike closed the door, and suddenly the wind was only howling around the outside of the truck as Buffy gasped for air and managed to prop the weapons and tranquilizer gun around them.

“You okay, love?” 

Spike didn’t seem to call her that anymore – only once in a while, and Buffy clung to the nickname. Her heart pounding in her chest with annoying, reluctant hope, she crossed her metaphorical fingers that Spike believed she was only winded. “I-I’m okay. What is that?”

“What? The dust storm or the music?” He picked up a cd case from the cup holder and turned down the volume on the music. “Buddy Holly. Fitting.”

“The dust storm. I’ve been in strong winds before but – ” 

“Nothing combined with wind and dirt?”

“Yeah.” 

“Never been in one before either. Inclined to think it’s nature and not magic.” Spike’s eyes roved over her, obviously making sure she was okay but not touching her, not thinking she was beautiful because she wouldn’t be. . . not in this.

Buffy blushed and self-consciously touched her long braids, discovering that wispy strands had come loose from them. Great. She was grateful that the interior truck light was dim. She slumped back against the seat and sighed. “How are we supposed to accomplish anything? God, this sucks. It’s too much.” She gestured outside. “Even if we did find a werewolf, how would we know it’s Oz? We only have so many tranquilizer cartridges. I can use my Slayer sense to aim but who knows what this wind would do to my aim.” 

“Dunno. We might have to wait it out until the sun rises and hope that it provides some light. Once you can see, I’m betting you’ll be able to adjust for the wind.” 

“You have a lot more faith in my aim than I do.” Buffy inanely thought of Giles’s practice exercise when he’d blindfolded her and asked her to hit him with a ball. Maybe she could do it? Her instincts were sharper now, but rescuing someone they all loved and cared about held more weight than any exercise. “And what will you do when the sun rises?”

Spike ignored her question. “I always believe in you, Buffy. Thought you knew that.” He sounded a little hurt.

She couldn’t look at him and studied her hands, which had fallen in her lap. “I know.” She peeked at him, and he was still watching her. “Same goes for you.”

He chuckled softly. “I know.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, the winds became less forceful on the shell of their shelter, and the streetlight above them became visibly brighter. 

Buffy huffed. “Of course. As soon as we find shelter, it stops.” 

They waited a few more minutes and then a howl echoed in the distance – a howl that was distinctly not the wind. Buffy and Spike glanced at one another.

“Thought after that storm, we’d be in Oz. The magical land. Not the werewolf.” She sighed. “Guess not.” She should have known since she wasn’t wearing gingham or ruby slippers. Still. She was so far out of her element in Texas, in a small town, in a dust storm, with Spike. 

The corner of Spike’s mouth lifted, and the way he looked at her made her think that maybe there was something there. “You still glow. Despite the bit of dirt.” He picked up the ax. “Ready?”

“I could use some water to rinse out the sand in my teeth.” She slung the bag with tranquilizer cartridges over her head and picked up the gun and her weapon. “But ready as I’ll ever be.” 

Spike’s lips moved together slightly, and he looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead of speaking, he eased open the truck door. 

Buffy copied him, trying to be quiet in the sudden silence. As they found their way back onto the road that led to the small downtown of the farming town, the sound of insects buzzed to life, but there were no further wolf cries. There were bodies slumped in the streets and over vehicles as they made their way past the dry cleaners and the feed store. Flies hummed lightly in Buffy’s ear when she got too close to one of the dead humans, and she tried not to look too closely at the victim’s chest and abdomen. She killed demons and saw some of them as people like Clem, but seeing gutted humans was another thing altogether. She didn’t know what that meant about her, but she supposed it came with being the Slayer whose job was to kill vampires and demons. 

At the moment, there were no signs of werewolves or their demon puppet master. 

Spike paused in front of the corner grocery store – a display of vegetables turned over. Potatoes, onions, and tomatoes were smashed and scattered over the concrete in a haphazard fan. In the dim light, Buffy saw his nostrils flare. She kept her Slayer senses alert but detected no movement or sounds around them. The town had been overrun – its inhabitants slaughtered and abandoned. 

“Whole place smells of wolf,” Spike whispered almost too low for Buffy to hear. Even Buffy could smell it; the musky scent was strong. 

“But none to be found.” Buffy glanced back. Nothing. She shivered in the cool air. The day had been hot – over a hundred degrees and dry heat. Now, it was cold. She wished she had brought a jacket. She should have known West Texas would be a little like Sunnydale since they were close to the desert; she’d definitely seen a tumbleweed. 

“There’s magic up ahead.” Spike nodded the direction of what looked like a small courthouse with more lights on inside than the other buildings. “That’s where we’ll find the demon controlling this mess.”

“Got it.” The small size of the downtown reminded Buffy of Sunnydale’s State Street, but then again, all there was of this town was the one street. So small. She wondered why the demon would pick here to be. 

Spike and Buffy made their way cautiously toward the townhall. As they approached the base of the small staircase up to the front doors, shadowy figures stirred in the darkness, and warning growls stirred to life in unison. Wind blew over Buffy’s bare arms, and goosebumps flew along her flesh. She was grateful that she’d preloaded a tranquilizer dose before they got this far.

“Weapon or tranquilizer? That is the question,” she threw out as casually as she would have entering a vamp nest. 

Spike gripped the handle of the ax. “I’m thinking weapon, love.”

“But they’re people,” she protested. 

As soon as she finished her sentence, a furry body flew across the landing right for Spike. She flung the tranquilizer gun’s strap over her shoulder so that it landed solidly against her back as she brought up the scythe. She winced as she sliced at the werewolf’s torso, embedding the metal deep but hopefully not too deep. The wolf whined and slipped to the ground. 

“I hate this,” Buffy said as she caught a glimpse of another werewolf darting forward with claws raised.

“Appreciate the save though, pet,” Spike noted in all seriousness as three more forms hurtled at him. He hacked at one with the ax, pulled the metal free, and whirled to strike another, his leather coat fanning out behind him. 

Buffy almost stopped to watch him move – the rough and tumble but somehow elegant way he approached fights. That piece of him hadn’t changed. But she couldn’t pause because there were more werewolves than she could count. She kicked and punched and ducked, dodging and feinting blows and somehow managing to avoid sharp pointy claws. She tried hard to aim her weapon at limbs and not midsections, hoping to give them a fighting chance of survival once the spell was reversed. If it was reversed.

A large one charged her as she was tugging her scythe out of another’s calf, and before she could avoid the hit, she was flying through the air and not of her own volition. Her body crashed into the brick of the courthouse, and she grunted in pain as the rough texture slid up her shirt and burned her skin. She bounced back to her feet only to be slammed back against the wall before she could pick up her fallen weapon. The tranquilizer gun was immovable metal on her back. Somehow, she managed to get her arms up in time to prevent the wolf from sinking his teeth into her neck. A furry knee pinned her body in place, and she strained her muscles, holding the salivating creature back. 

Just as sharp teeth skimmed over the flesh of her neck, the pressure was suddenly gone, and Buffy fell to the ground.

Spike snapped the werewolf’s neck with a crunch and threw the lifeless body aside. Then, he pivoted and punched the next wolf that was charging him, making hard contact on the wolf’s cheek. 

Buffy’s eyes grew round as she watched the dead werewolf transform back into human form. She let out a breath of relief as she saw that the man was decidedly not Oz. Her fingers then felt her neck. She couldn’t tell if the liquid there was blood or saliva. 

Shaking, she scooped up her scythe, tripping the next wolf coming her way, and whacking it with the butt of the handle, unwilling to risk killing another. The wolf whined as he slipped into unconsciousness. 

She spun to find Spike rendering the final wolf unconscious. 

His face was swathed in darkness as he pivoted to face her. “Looks like that was the last of them. At least out here.”

“No Oz. Right?” 

“Know his scent. He’s not here.”

“I hope that’s good news.” Buffy reached up and felt her neck again. Still wet, and her human nose couldn’t parse out the smell of her own blood from others’. 

She must have looked panicked because Spike strode forward and touched her. His cool thumb swept over her skin to check for injuries, sending a spiral of tingles over her body. She wondered if he noticed the effect he had on her even in the middle of a fight. She really hoped it wasn’t enough to draw more werewolves. “Not blood. Not a bite.”

“Thank you.” Her shoulders relaxed in relief, and she suddenly thought of the tranquilizers in the bag still balancing against her hip. She passed Spike her scythe, and peeled open the flap. Her shaking fingers found the glass vials. No dampness there. Thank god. “We have to find him. For Willow.” 

Buffy was worried about her friend. Willow hadn’t dated anyone seriously since Tara had died and Sunnydale was a crater. Kennedy didn’t count. Willow kept blowing the dating thing off, saying she was too busy to put herself out there. Not that any of them had long-lasting relationships, but Xander had a new Slayer girlfriend and Buffy had Spike – sort of. Maybe.

“Pet,” Spike said with such preternatural intensity that Buffy froze.

“What?” 

Spike gave the barest of nods, and she realized that he was staring over her shoulder.

Holding her breath, Buffy slowly turned to see what Spike saw. 

It was Oz. 

She’d recognize his smaller wolf-y form anywhere; despite the wolf being to the forefront, there was something about the way he carried himself and quizzically cocked his head that made her think of her affable friend. Her heart skipped a beat, and as she held the wolf’s gaze, she lowered the hopefully unbroken tranquilizer gun so that the barrel was aimed at him.

Before she could pull the trigger, Oz’s wolf form melted away, leaving a very naked human standing before them. His hair was red – undyed, and even with the almost nonexistent light, Buffy could see the sorrow and desperation in his eyes. Willow was right. He wanted her to kill him; she knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt. He’d killed and killed people he cared about, and now he wanted to die. 

Buffy lowered the gun and swallowed past the lump in her throat. She kept her gaze locked with his, willing him to not give up. “Oz. We’re here to help.”

Oz’s face contorted as if he was trying to fight some unseen force – wolf or demonic spell. He squinted his eyes, and his next words came out stilted and flat. “You have to come with me. She sent me to retrieve you.”

“She?” Buffy asked, trying to keep him going and hoping he could find a space to push past whatever had a hold on him.

“S-she.” He turned his head to one side and gagged. The words that were his tumbled out in a rush. “W-willow? She. . . the other. It’s not what you think it – ” He clutched at his throat, and Buffy took three steps toward him, only Spike’s hand on her arm holding her back. The robotic tone was back. “She wants you. Now.” The last syllable trailed off into a growl, and human Oz slipped away, giving way to fur and fangs. His form hunched as he loped back the way he’d come. 

Buffy glanced back at Spike only briefly, catching his eye and setting a plan. The plan was simple. 

Wing it.

Oz dropped off the end of the veranda, and Buffy followed, jumping down the elevated porch with ease and catching a glimpse of Oz slipping into a side door. 

Spike passed her scythe to her in the doorway, and they trailed after Oz, who was whining and growling – the sound echoing in the long eerily empty corridor that twisted and turned. The ceilings were tall, the walls a cream with signs of age, and there was a dirty green carpet that paved their way to the belly of whatever demon was causing all of this. 

After several seconds of silence, Spike pulled up close behind her; she felt his body close to hers but tried to block out her body’s reaction to him. “More wolves here.”

“Not just leftover scent from the ones who attacked us outside?” Buffy whispered.

“No. Too strong for that.” 

“Great.” More werewolves to try and not kill. “At least it’s well lit.”

“You have a point.” A heartbeat passed. “If anyone can handle more, it’s you.” There he went again being encouraging. That’s all he seemed to do. 

Buffy resisted the urge to infuse her words with sarcasm and managed a genuine, “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” 

She found herself somehow at an elevator and exchanged a glance with Spike before following Oz aboard. The subsequent elevator ride was eerie and silent with Oz staring forward, and Spike headily close to her. The elevator slowed and dinged – the sound a little off key. As the doors slid apart with excruciating slowness, Buffy’s eyes widened at the large open room before them. 

The brightly lit courtroom was empty of chairs but was filled with werewolves – more than they’d fought outside. At the judge’s bench presiding over them all was a slight female demon with a mix of human and pinky-red reptilian skin. Her long tail flicked behind her, and her eyes glowed golden. She was twirling a wooden gavel in one clawed hand, and she grinned at them. 

“Didn’t expect y’all to make it this far,” she called to them, her voice confident over the strangely silent wolves. “Kinda curious who you are. If you make it through this next part, I’ll introduce myself.” She waved the gavel at the wolves, and tendrils of light blue magic spread over their heads and settled down on each one’s forehead.

Growls suddenly filled the room that had so recently been quiet. Oz shoved past them and disappeared to the right as the group advanced. 

Spike glanced down at her. “Ready, pet?”

She nodded, gripping her weapon. “Ready.” 

The fight this time around went a lot more smoothly despite the greater number of werewolves. Buffy thought that maybe the well-lit courtroom made a difference. But that was too easy. Maybe it was also the difference with Spike. He was showing her in the little moments leading up to this fight that he was really there with her. . . there with her in the way he used to be but hadn’t quite been since he returned to her.

She almost laughed with joy, but that would be inappropriate and wrong, so she remained focused on the mission. There was no singing and dancing here. 

Still, whatever the reason for this shift, Buffy and Spike’s movements flowed like they were the principal dancers in a well-choreographed dance of death. 

Only they weren’t killing anyone. . . just knocking a bunch of humans who happened to be in wolf-y-creature-mode unconscious. When Spike stumbled, Buffy was there to kick a wolf in the jaw and send him flying. When Buffy ducked in response to Spike’s command, his weapon sailed end-over-end across the room so that the handle slammed between a pair of glowing eyes. When they were surrounded by four werewolves all attacking at once, they were back-to-back, them-against-the-world, responding to minute changes in each other. 

Buffy felt almost like she and Spike were living and breathing this fight, straining muscles to their delicious limits and hitting the dance steps right on time. (So, maybe there was dancing; it just wasn’t exactly merry or green.) The werewolves were only the background dancers who always forgot their way through the movements. 

One by one the werewolves fell, transforming into the humans that they were as their bodies hit the ground. Not one of them was dead.

Buffy and Spike ended up next to one another – both panting, having lost their weapons, and facing the demon who now sat at the judge’s bench with her booted feet on the table. Oz was standing next to her like a bailiff in a werewolf costume. Buffy had lost the tranquilizer gun somewhere in the fight, but she still had the bag of cartridges on her hip.

Still spinning her gavel, the demon smiled at them. “Wow. Didn’t expect that one. You’re good.”

Buffy managed to control her breathing enough to ask, “Why?”

“Why what?” 

“I mean, what’s the point of all of this?” Buffy gestured at the fallen werewolves. “The wolves. The town. All the dead people.”

The demon grinned and sat up, leaning forward on the desk. “Why else does anyone do anything in a West Texas farming town?” She paused for effect. “Boredom.”

“Boredom?” Spike asked incredulously, squinting his eyes like she was crazy. 

“Of course.” 

Anger flaring, Buffy crossed her arms. “So all this. Drawing werewolves here by promising them what?” All Buffy knew was that Oz and the others had come here willingly. “Something that will bring them peace? Controlling them once they got here even without it being a full moon. Having them kill everyone in the town. Having them kill the people they love. You did all that because you were bored?”

“Uh huh. Cow tipping and joyriding in hotwired cars? They just weren’t fun anymore. And I’ve always been fascinated by the coyotes around here. So, I did some research and found werewolves. So voila! Werewolves. They seem to have frightened the coyotes off.” The demon was being far too perky. “Plus, it’s lonely being the only demon-type in town and having to constantly be incognito.” 

“Couldn’t you have just moved if you were bored?” Buffy asked. “Bigger cities have larger populations of demons.”

The demon scoffed. “Lubbock doesn’t have a large population of demons. It’s a college town. And a bunch of conservative, religious folk. Not demon types.” She tilted her head, considering. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised.” 

Buffy considered that maybe Lubbock might have something hellmouth-y to it; after all, Sunnydale did have an awful lot of churches. She made a mental note to ask Giles later.

“Or you could try a hellmouth,” Spike suggested as if reading Buffy’s mind. “The world is very big and definitely not boring.”

The demon shrugged one shoulder. “I kinda wanted to see what doing this would bring. And I never in a million years would have thought it would bring you two. You’re really really formidable. Like crazy strong and in sync with each other. You must be in love with each other or something.” Buffy didn’t know how the demon came to that conclusion. “And now, you’re going to die.” 

With that declaration, the demon hopped up onto the desk, tail flicking, and raised her gavel. An ancient language spilled past her lips in a deep, disembodied voice that was far from youthful perkiness. Buffy felt a charge through the air around her – something she rarely felt in response to magic. When she tried to move, she discovered that her legs were immobile, and a quick look at Spike revealed he couldn’t move either as he pushed against the sweeping magic force. 

In horror, Buffy realized that the men and women who’d been unconscious were rising up like werewolf zombies, sprouting fur and fangs once more. Their fur and claws crackling with magical electricity, they surrounded Buffy and Spike. 

“I don’t think so!” bellowed a familiar voice from behind them. 

Willow strode forward – her long red hair flowing back with the rushing wind that always came with powerful magic. With one hand raised, Willow cast a white forcefield that pushed back against the magically-enhanced werewolves, and with her other hand, she sent a lightning bolt of white energy to shatter the gavel in the demon’s hand. 

The demon threw her head back and laughed. “Now this is fun!” She lifted her hand, making a small gesture like sign language, and the gavel easily reappeared. With her face set with ferocious concentration, the demon threw out more magic, dissolving Willow’s spell at the edges and allowing the werewolves to advance. 

Willow stood still and concentrated but couldn’t seem to stop the slow destruction of her barrier, no doubt weakened by the magic she had done to save Xander. 

Buffy suddenly realized she could move. She scanned the ground and saw her scythe nearby. Without a second thought, she darted for the weapon, sliding on the ground to reach it, grasping the handle, and sending it arcing through the air past all the warring magic to sink into the demon’s throat. 

With a small whine, the demon crumpled to the ground, and the magic abruptly ceased. Willow collapsed as did all the werewolves, who oddly enough remained in wolf form. 

Up on the judge’s bench, Oz the werewolf stood, swaying slightly as if dazed. 

Buffy grabbed for the pouch of tranquilizers, her fingers fumbling for a cartridge. Finding one, she threw that as well, the drug finding its home in Oz’s chest with ease, and he too dropped. 

“Looks like we’re gonna need a lot of chains, pet,” Spike said from behind her. 

* * *

“So, here we are again.” Spike was silhouetted in the doorway of the bedroom in which Buffy had been trying and failing to sleep. 

All her exhausted muscles protesting, she sat up in the bed that wasn’t her bed, clutching the sheet to her chest. Not that she had anything to cover. She was wearing a large T-shirt she’d found in the latest abandoned house. Abandoned house, abandoned clothes, abandoned bed. Somewhere out there, their luggage was abandoned as well, due to having been thrust into a demon-fighting situation. Sometimes the lack of a stable place made her feel like she was dreaming – floating along on some journey that didn’t feel quite right. “Yes, but this time, Oz is safely chained in the basement. And his spell worked; Willow was able to prevent Xander from turning wolf-y in the future.” 

Oz was still asleep, and they weren’t quite sure what form he’d take when he woke. Willow had still been able to sense the demon’s magic lingering in his body. Xander was wiped out from his ordeal and was sleeping in the basement far from Oz’s reach should he wake up. Willow had also placed a temporary Sleeping Beauty spell on the rest of the living werewolves, who were healing nicely in their unconscious state. Spike, Buffy, and Willow had found chains in the main farming and ranch supply store in town, and all the wolves were secured in the courthouse. Needless to say, Willow had been completely drained and had curled up on a pallet just out of reach of Oz, so he’d see her when he woke but wouldn’t be able to attack her if he had the urge. 

“That wasn’t what I meant, pet.” 

Buffy still couldn’t see Spike’s face, but his tone was low and rumbly and sent her body into a tailspin of lusty betrayal. Damn it. She knew he probably knew. Again. His allusion to the abandoned house in Sunnydale made her feel vulnerable. Naked. So, she waited until she felt she could speak in an even tone. “Were you bored?” She hadn’t even thought of that as a reason for Spike’s sudden return into her life until the demon said she’d been bored.

“What?” He was surprised by her question. 

“Were you bored? Is that why you finally came to find me after you came back?” Some of the hurt she’d been hanging onto for months edged into the last few syllables. 

Spike took a step into the room, and she simultaneously wanted him closer and wanted to tell him to go to hell. Instead, she waited. “You know that Dawn was in danger, and I wanted to help.”

Her heart constricted in her chest. “That’s why?” 

“Yeah. I love Dawn. I’d do anything to protect her. Made a promise to you, didn’t I? ‘Til the end of the world.” 

Irritation washed over Buffy. He could say he loved her sister but couldn’t bring himself to be truthful about his feelings for her. Or maybe not saying anything said everything about how he really felt. “Well, now Dawn’s safely in school in England with Giles. So, you don’t need to hang around anymore.” At least her sister had an unchanging place to be. “You can go back to helping Angel with that big mess he made in L.A.” Sadness slipped over Buffy’s cheeks in the form of tears, and she was glad for the shadows, so Spike couldn’t see how hurt she was. 

Spike kept coming closer, and he sat on the edge of the bed, giving her space but invading it all the same. “Oh, love. Are you asking why I didn’t come sooner?” He was quiet for a long moment, and she could see his shoulders slumped against the vague light from the room down the hall. “I thought about coming to you every single day that I’ve been back.”

“Every day?” So, she let a little irony creep into her voice. 

“Every single sodding day. Every hour. Every minute.” He was serious. As serious as houses. 

“So, why didn’t you? I missed you. I grieved you.” Screw it. Now was her moment. She was all in. She took a deep, hesitating breath. “I-I loved you every single day you weren’t there.” 

“You did?” He sounded stunned. Why did he still sound stunned that she had feelings for him? 

She found herself reassuring him even though her heart was pounding ninety miles an hour in her chest – her vulnerability making her want to flee the room, flee the house, flee the town. But if she did that, she would never know if there was a chance. “I did.” She stopped herself short of saying that she didn’t mean it in the past tense.

He ran a hand over his face. “Oh god, pet. I’ve bollixed everything up.” He sounded like he might cry. 

Buffy stubbornly wanted him to come to her, wanted him to apologize for hurting her and not loving her enough to come sooner. But she reached for him, climbing out from under the covers, crossing the remaining gulf between them, and wrapping her arms and legs around him from behind. She placed her cheek on his back and felt him tremble. “Life is too short. You can’t wait for the right moment or until you’re done baking. You’ll miss out on things. Important things.” Like loving me. Like letting me love you. “Don’t wait.” The last part sounded a little like pleading. She let out a gust of air and covered with humor. “God, I sound like a really bad after school special.”

Spike chuckled, and she loved the feeling of the rumble on her ear. “But you’re right.”

She held him tighter. “I’m scared.” 

“Scared of what, love?” He moved a little, loosening her grip and making her heart skip in her chest. “Hey. Come here.” He twisted a little and reached around for her, pulling her around to his front so that she was facing him, her legs going around his waist, her hands landing on his chest. 

Buffy touched her forehead to his cooler one and closed her eyes. “I’m scared that if we take this leap, we’ll just end up separated again. . . or dead.” 

Spike didn’t pull away or move. He just simply said, “Hmm. Going out on a bit of a limb here, but I’m thinking that death can’t keep us separated for long. Thought I was at peace. Or going to hell to pay my dues after my unlife of wrongs. Thought I’d done my duty as champion of closing the Sunnydale hellmouth, and yet, here I am.”  


This time Buffy was the one who laughed. “Okay, Mr. Wise Guy.” Then, she sobered as fear gripped her heart again. “What are you saying?”

He ran the fingers of one hand down her back, tracing her spine the way she knew he remembered that she liked it. “You didn’t let me finish, pet.”

“Oh. Go on,” she nudged, still holding her breath. 

“So here we are again,” Spike repeated. His nose bumped against hers as his lips parted. She ached with longing for him to kiss her. “We’re in an abandoned house in a hellmouth of one bored demon’s making. We’ve saved our friends. Saved the wolf and a bunch of his pack. And we’re both bloody exhausted. I still love you. Never stopped. Never will. Still don’t expect anything. Don’t even bloody know if I deserve it – ”

“Spike,” Buffy interrupted. “I love you, too. Just kiss me already.” Thank goodness she’d brushed her teeth free of storm dirt.

“You love me – ”

Buffy smiled and then brought her lips to Spike’s, moaning a little as the slip of his cool lips over her warmer ones sent goosebumps flying over her arms, and she shivered as he slowly moved with her, deepening the kiss and taking his time as he always did before when she let him. To her, the simple, easy caress of his tongue on hers and the tender affection with hints of more passion to come made her feel like she’d found her way to her own home. . . their home, and when he pulled back at last, she sighed with happiness. 

“Is this what it’s like?” he whispered. 

“What do you mean?” she asked, caressing his cheek. She traced all the familiar lines. Oh, she never wanted to stop touching him. 

“To love and be loved?” He sounded almost in awe. 

She kissed one cheek and then the other. “Oh. Yes. I believe so.” She traced a finger over the leather covering his shoulder. “Take this off. I need you to hold me.” She yawned – a good wide yawn, a yawn that meant she was now also emotionally exhausted and needed sleep. As Buffy helped him shed his duster, boots, and jeans, she stood before him and shifted her command to a question. Commands could come later when things were more solidly back on track in the sex department.


	10. Caffeine, the New Aphrodisiac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much, much love and thanks for my beta Gwennie, who whipped this chapter into shape. Love ya lady!

She kissed one cheek and then the other. “Oh. Yes. I believe so.” She traced a finger over the leather covering his shoulder. “Take this off. I need you to hold me.” She yawned – a good wide yawn, a yawn that meant she was now also emotionally exhausted and needed sleep. As Buffy helped him shed his duster, boots, and jeans, she stood before him and shifted her command to a question. Commands could come later when things were more solidly back on track in the sex department.

“But more importantly”—Buffy stripped Spike of his shirt, rendering him deliciously nude—“what do  _you_ need, Spike?”

“I need to  _feel..._ ”Spike eyed her hungrily as he slipped the only thing between them off her, sending the black silk cascading down her body to pool at her feet.

Buffy shivered.

“ _My_ heaven.”Spike gathered her in his arms and bride-carried her across his crypt, splaying her across the cushioned sarcophagus.

He covered her mouth with his, gently sipping from her lips—tasting redemption and sacramental wine—until they were both drunk with longing.The cool heft of his body covered hers, absorbing her heat, her passion, her desire.Then, inch by tantalizing inch, he descended her body and marked each span of flesh with sinful kisses and whispered words of reverence—his “salvation” and “soul”—until she was dizzy with need.

Buffy writhed.“ _Spike_.”Part warning, part plea.

“Let me taste”—he laid a devious trail up her inner thigh, stopping to hover over her sex—“ _heaven_.” 

Buffy nearly came apart from the wicked glint in his eyes, as the tip of his sinfully long tongue made a blazing path, parting the gates of her sex.He worshiped every part of his heaven with devout reverence, driving her to her knees in supplication.Her body coiled and tightened, begging for release.“ _Please_.” 

“Ah, the pleas for sweet death”—his fangs elongated—“for  _la petite mort_.”Spike reared back and, with one fluid stroke, he was inside her.

Buffy closed her eyes, neck arching back against the satin pillows.

“No.”He shifted and pulled back, threatening to take away the sweetest death she was ever allowed.“Look upon  _your_ salvation.”

To stop his agonizing retreat, Buffy opened her eyes and locked her gaze with his.Feeling her surrender, Spike ruthlessly drove into her over and over again. 

“My filthy” _Thrust_  “lil’” _Thrust_ “Mary Magdalene.”

“ _Yes_!”

Each measured, languid thrust brought her closer and closer, but the ever-elusive  _la petite mort_ remained just out of reach.Then, without warning, Spike rolled them and set her astride his lap, impaling her on his cock.Buffy raised and lowered herself experimentally, until she found a blissful cadence.It wasn’t long before, once more, she felt her body cinching, longing for the rapturous death only he could provide.

“ _Her many sins have been forgiven,_ ” Spike sermonized, grasping her hips to aid in her ride,“ _as her great love has shown_.”He shifted, grinding deliciously down on her clit with every clash of their hips. _“But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.”_

She stopped moving when a single tear escaped.Then, as if the dam had broken, a deluge of tears fell, striking her cheeks and chest.Spike placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Buffy.”

While the tears came, there was a distant sound.Was that  _hissing_?

_“Buffy?”_

She felt a sweet heat rush across her face.

_“Buffy!”_

Buffy blinked owlishly, taking a moment to get her bearings.She wasn’t in Spike’s crypt, and she definitely wasn't doing  _that_.She was at work.And not in one of the many Sunnydale’s graveyards, protecting the world from all that goes bump in the night, but playing barista to keep those same masses caffeinated.

And it wasn’t Spike touching her, but her boss Julian, who—going by the way his pursed lips nearly disappeared under his miniscule metrosexual mustache—was none too pleased.

“Buffy, are you almost done with William’s double shot espresso with extra foam?”

She surveyed the milk foam and double shot puddle filling the espresso machine trough and the tiny splats of milk on her shirt and apron.“Um, almost?”

“Lucky for you, William is patient,”Julian scoffed, then returned to the counter, beaming with a megawatt customer-service smile as he offered  _William_  a complementary blueberry scone.

Buffy eyed Spike with all the disdain she could muster.Which was pretty much nil, on account of his leading man status in her recent up close and  _way_ personal nakedness fantasy.

She could blame the whole raunchy brain-blip on him bothering her at work.Or on her lack of sleep.Or on Willow and her supposed friends, not only dragging her out of heaven, but also leaving her penniless and heavily in debt.She could even blame her newly discovered demon brain for smushing together a harlequin novel with the info she gained from her impromptu visit years ago to a nunnery, in creating this freakydeaky, porno daymare.

Or, it could be, she just came back  _wrong_.

Whichever it was, this freak show need to end now.Well, not  _now_ now, but at midnight when her shift finished.She’d hang up her barista apron and never look back on customer service, and never-ever look back on  _servicing_ Spike ever again.She'd find another job.There were plenty of jobs for a twice-resurrected, college dropout slayer, right?

Right. 

But first, she had to finish what she started by giving  _William_ his drink and getting him outta the store and outta her life.Thankfully, when Spike got what he came for, or at least his drink, he left and she returned to the literal grind.She started the next order.Then the next.

It was the middle of the evening shift at the Espresso Pump. Buffy was pouring a latte, focused on creating a tulip ornament on the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spike quoted Luke 7:47, which is believed to be about Mary Magdalene.
> 
> Sorry about the shortness (especially in comparison to all those before me) but I hope the shameless smut makes up for it.


End file.
